The Gotham Post
by chris dee
Summary: Cat—Tale 46: Once upon a time a tabloid went too far, Catwoman responded, and Gotham has never been the same. Wait til you see what happens this time.
1. Prologue: While the Cat's Away

_Prologue: While the Cat's Away _

* * *

Selina stretched out luxuriously in the passenger cabin of Wayne One. She was feeling especially feline. Two weeks of continuous pampering at the Xanadu Resort had relaxed her body, while returning to the place where so much began with Bruce had…

Had evoked something very complicated.

A cyclone of memories and feelings, hopes and frustrations, dreams and regret, had hovered just outside her consciousness. More than once as she closed her eyes, letting her muscles slacken in response to some delicious new massage, that tempest of coiled emotion spun some spiky thought or memory into her reverie. Catlike, she had bolted full awake, teeth bared and claws extended to rip the beast to shreds. Externally it was only a minor twitch, which brought about some comment from the masseuse about tension and city life. Selina dutifully closed her eyes again, put the angst from her mind and resumed purring… until the next time.

Captain Leffinger opened the intercom and announced they would be landing at the Gotham Executive Airport at 10:30 local time, it was a brisk but pleasant 51 degrees in Gotham proper, 49 in Bristol, overcast, with a 7 percent chance of rain this afternoon, winds from the northeast at 7 miles per hour…

Selina purred a deep-throated, feral purr and checked her watch. Yes, the time at Xanadu had awakened something. Body and soul, she felt more feline than she had in years.

And felinity always wanted an outlet.

Felinity wanted.

Felinity craved.

And felinity – her particular kind of felinity – had always found expression in one particular place: Batman.

She had missed Bruce, of course. Like she missed Whiskers and Nutmeg, home and Alfred, Gotham and gossip. But she didn't want, crave, and hunger for Bruce, home, or Nutmeg. She craved felinity. She wanted –_needed_ to let the cat out, to be Catwoman again fully and unrestrainedly, that essence of freedom, mischief, independence, and purple flowing through her, enveloping her. That essence of pure, uninhibited cat.

In her peripheral vision, Selina noticed her fingers unconsciously pawing lightly at the air, her fresh manicure adding an uncharacteristic touch of purple to the suggestion of claws.

Yes… Catwoman again, fully and unrestrainedly,

Batman.

This would be… such meow.

* * *

Cats possess a curious mix of patience and impatience. Selina's cat wanted to be indulged, but Gotham and Batman were still more than an hour away. Like any cat stalking prey, whether for food or fun, she was prepared to wait, poised and alert, until the moment came to strike. But like any cat wanting to be indulged, she wanted indulgence _now_. So she prowled the cabin like the predator she was, in search of some taste of catnip.

Wayne One was stocked as it had always been, the decisions made long ago to foster the image of the playboy fop. Bruce never drank alcohol when he flew alone (and only rarely if there were visitors onboard), but the refrigerator was filled with Dom Perignon so those employed to stock it would note the extravagance, as would those employed to clean up afterwards when they found one, two, or three empty bottles in the trashcan. So Selina opened a bottle, poured herself a glass, and noted the large "W" encircled by an oval etched into the base of the flute. She ran her finger over this, as she often did the bat-emblem on Batman's chest, and purred. Then she fixed herself a snack. There was chilled crab and caviar, which she spooned onto a china plate embossed with that same, inevitable W.

Again she purred as she took her treat back to the main cabin and curled into her place on the overstuffed white leather sofa. There was no denying that, sexy as Batman was, Bruce Wayne was a bonus beyond her wildest dreams. As sexy as Batman was… She savored a bite of crabmeat sprinkled with caviar… As sexy as Batman was, there was no denying that Bruce brought something to the party that the tightass crimefighter never could. She sipped the Dom… '85, she noted. Unlike most who just bought the name, Bruce knew the good vintages. She reflected, not for the first time, how few that thought they knew him, either as Bruce or Batman, really understood the first thing about his world.

She flicked on the entertainment system and scrolled through the selection of films… _The Italian Job_ caught her eye. A heist movie. Just the thing, even if it was fairly preposterous. She fast-forwarded to her favorite scene, the heroine drilling a safe (badly). A pale, pitiful heroine unfortunately, plying her safecracking skills (such as they were) for cops and corporate patrons. No real profit in that, and certainly no excitement.

Excitement.

Fun.

It had been far too long.

* * *

Selina's excitedly playful felinity wavered as she stepped out of the plane – struck, just like during the massages at Xanadu, with a sudden blow of memory and indescribable feeling. She had just assumed that Bruce would be meeting her. Instead, the Bentley sat waiting at the edge of the airstrip. The Bentley meant Alfred. She walked to the car, a light sparkling step belying her inner turmoil as she processed that final wave of memory from the first visit to Xanadu:

She'd gone away with Batman. For the first days and nights he'd kept his face hidden beneath an Arab headdress and elaborate sunglasses. In the privacy of the bungalow he'd removed the headdress, and she saw he had dark hair – deliciously dark hair – which she delighted running her fingers through. But the band around his eyes and brow continued to mask his face. They made love those first times in anonymous intimacy. Then suddenly, from nowhere, words that she never expected, "a crimefighter loving a thief…" followed by "my name is Bruce…" followed by… followed by…

It wasn't Wayne One, of course, but they'd flown back together to this same airstrip, Bruce Wayne and Selina Kyle. He had a name. Batman had a name. And a face. And suddenly he wasn't unspeakably dangerous and sexy anymore, he was handsome and charming, and he said "Why not come out to the house."

…Alfred had already gotten out of the car and was holding the passenger door open for her. "Welcome back, Miss," he murmured with a respectful nod – and the last traces of felinity dissolved. Selina had a sudden urge to hug the dear old man. Then, finding this unacceptable, felinity spiked twice as powerfully as before and she placed a delicate fingertip, almost like a claw, just under his chin.

"Meow," she answered, Catwoman's voice rich with pleased amusement.

On an impulse, she imparted an air kiss an inch off of Alfred's astonished cheek, and then dipped regally into the car.

Alfred closed the door with a curiously thoughtful expression. "Indeed," he remarked dryly.

* * *

Just like Bruce, Selina never raised the partition separating the driver from the passenger. Once he got back in the car, she affixed the back of Alfred's head with a stare of feline curiosity. But he merely started the car and began to drive.

"I shocked you, didn't I?" she asked with a naughty grin.

"In what way, Miss?" Alfred asked with bland English composure.

Selina laughed. "Should have known better," she chided herself, "Can't unsettle a butler, even with a meow. _He_ would have gone to pieces, you know. At least, once upon a time he would."

"I dare say 'once upon a time' my reaction might have been different also, Miss. If I found myself facing a 'Catwoman encounter,' so to speak, in the days before becoming acquainted with your civilian self." In the rearview mirror, Selina thought she detected a fleeting elfish smirk before Alfred went on, as if his previous comment somehow suggested the next. "Master Bruce sends his apologies, Miss, that he was unable to meet you himself. I believe you will find a personal note to that effect in the compartment beside you."

Selina slid open the compartment normally filled with decanters, glasses, a telephone and fax machine. Instead of these, she found a black envelope resting against a porcelain, art deco figurine of a woman walking a leopard on a leash. She stared at it for a long time, remembering when she'd seen it before…

It seemed like a hundred years ago, another lifetime, before Xanadu, before "my name is Bruce." She'd mounted Cat-Tales to finally answer the Gotham Post's endless campaign of lies about her. Her motives had nothing to do with Batman. The stage show was merely a public forum where she could speak the truth and expect to be heard: Catwoman had never been arrested. Catwoman was not some ignorant prostitute. Catwoman was not some dingy goggled creature wandering poor neighborhoods trying to make sense out of her life. Catwoman did not kill people. Catwoman did not use a gun. And on, and on, and on. She'd had enough so she'd mounted the show to set the record straight. And Batman, Batman was part of the story, an indispensable part of the story; everyone in Gotham knew that. She couldn't very well say she was the real Catwoman, purport to tell the _truth_ about the real Catwoman, and then deny or gloss over that most vital part of Catwoman's world.

So she included him, she told a few stories about what really went on between Cat and Bat…and that changed everything forever. He'd seen the show, of course; it was a virtual certainty that he would. She didn't think it would matter. He'd managed to ignore everything else that ever happened between them, why would her standing on a stage and telling a few cat tales make a difference? But that first encounter afterwards it _was_ different, completely different. Words had more than one meaning. Silence did too. There had always been subtext whenever they met, but now it could shift unexpectedly: charged and sexual one moment, vanished the next.

Then, one morning, that note slipped into her coat pocket. "Good morning Kitten, You always get to pick the time and place, that's patently unfair…" He invited her to meet on the roof of the opera house, a date of sorts, Batman and Catwoman, but with no crime between them… Maybe it was a little scary; maybe that's why she'd done it. 'No crime between them' was, perhaps, a scary thought back then. So when he was called away she'd slipped off herself to that jewelry store across the way. And there it was, waiting: a note, a picnic basket, and _this leopard_. He'd known, somehow he'd known what she would do even before she did herself. And he called her on it, on hiding behind a break-in rather than giving them a fair shot as a couple.

…Selina heard a respectful cough and realized the car had stopped. It sat now in the front circle before the entrance to Wayne Manor.

"It isn't my place to say, Miss," Alfred remarked dryly, "but I believe you will be better able to glean the note's meaning if you were to open the envelope."

Selina delivered a disgusted eyeroll, but she did, finally, open the envelope.

_Worked last time, _the note read._ 10 o'clock sharp. You know where. –B _

* * *

Bruce wasn't at home when Selina returned to the manor. Alfred said he was in town, an unexpected meeting at Wayne Enterprises. It sounded like a fop excuse, but Selina let it pass. The note was very "Batman," and if Batman was up to something then he was probably keeping Bruce out of the picture until he could carry out his plan. That meant she had the manor to herself for the day. Not the meow she was planning for her homecoming, but she would make do.

Whiskers and Nutmeg were first on the agenda. Like most cats left for too long, they greeted her with haughty indifference. She had gone off for two full weeks, deprived them of her company, left them with only Standing Softpaws and Bat-Bruce to care for them and only a mansionful of curiosities to keep them amused and occupied. They would make their displeasure known.

Selina expected this. She opened her suitcase with a dramatic sigh, clearly heartbroken that her little friends were so cross. She sadly unpacked a blouse, her peripheral vision noting feline heads rising curiously from their sulky postures. She slowly took several underthings from the suitcase and set them methodically on the bed, ignoring those pointed ears perked in her direction and the furry necks stretching to see into the case. She sighed again as she draped a sundress over her arm and carried it to the closet. She took much longer than necessary hanging it up, and when she returned to the bedroom both cats were on the bed investigating the suitcase. Nutmeg had hopped inside and was eagerly sniffing the contents, while Whiskers pawed the handle.

"Ha," Selina said triumphantly.

Nutmeg caved at once, rubbing against her hands and the side of the case in one smooth movement. Whiskers held out a minute longer, content to welcome back the suitcase and its contents, while still ignoring its owner. Until…

"Presents!" Selina declared, pulling out a small paper sack. She reached in and pulled out a natural sponge the size of her fist. "Mine," she told Nutmeg firmly. "Not yours, not a toy, mustn't touch." Nutmeg promptly leapt up, grabbed the sponge from her fingers, and ran off with it. "Good girl," she said, pleased as always by her cat's penchant for theft.

"And you," she told Whiskers, holding out a small box filed with sand and a few pebbles. "This is a tabletop Zen garden. For meditation. Representing a single moment in time. Not to be pawed at. Not to be played with. Understand?" Whiskers looked into her eyes, a portrait of innocence and guileless sincerity. Selina winked, and placed the little garden on a middle shelf where Whiskers could get to it easily. "Enjoy," she said dryly.

That much accomplished, Selina left the rest of her unpacking and changed into the catsuit. After all, in the days before Wayne Manor was home, it was exactly the kind of place Catwoman would fancy. She rummaged in her suitcase until she found a larger bag, then left through the bedroom window. She reentered the manor through a larger window above the sunroom. From there, she crept stealthily into the north drawing room, removed the grate and climbed into an air conditioning vent. Through this, she made her way to the kitchen. Alfred was there, and she watched patiently through the grate while he worked. Finally he left, and she quickly dropped down and scurried into his pantry. She opened her bag and extracted three jars of exotic jam. These she arranged in a little pyramid, tying the top one with a bow.

She purred, satisfied with the effect, and left as she'd come.

* * *

Batman waited patiently on the Opera House roof, calmly running through his plan as he expected it to unfold. Even the best strategies never played out exactly as expected. That's why it was so important to have the outline clearly mapped out, so you could adapt moment-to-moment, keeping the overall scenario on track. Even here the night of that first "date" with Selina she'd thrown him a curve straight away and—

At which moment, reality threw him just such a curve as the alarm sounded at a jewelry store across the way.

"Damn," he cursed through his teeth. Of all the places, on all the nights…

He picked up the folded packet he'd brought, not wanting her to arrive while he was gone and find it on her own. It was too large to fit into any compartment on his utility belt, so he swung down to the street level with it tucked awkwardly between the belt and the small of his back. This was going to be a ridiculous crimefighting exercise, subduing some lowlife while trying to keep from bending or wrinkling the package.

Except, reaching the jewelers, there didn't seem to be any lowlife to pummel. He pulled the packet out, set it on one of the empty showcases, and searched more thoroughly. The detailed search confirmed the first glance: there was no one inside, nothing amiss except for the absolute hatchet job on the splice that tripped the alarm.

"Amateurs," he cursed again, retrieving his packet. Had this been one of Selina's jobs back in the day, it would have been much cleaner, much more subtle. In those days, he could tell just by inspecting the splice. There was a certain style, a certain grace to her wire-work that was pure artistry. He never would have admitted it back then, but a certain part of him admired it, the beauty in her work. It got to the point that he could instantly spot those telltale signs of a "Catwoman break-in" - the angle of the wire cuts, the pristine twist in the splice, the subtle clawmarks on the windowpane. He often wondered if she'd done it on purpose, if it was meant to be her calling card. Riddler left clues, Joker left grinning bodies, and Catwoman left these elegantly pristine wire splices.

Not like this one. This was butchery - simple hack and slash. It was the difference between the delicate incision of an expert surgeon and an axe-wielding psycho in a slasher film. If it had been her - like it was that first night on the Opera House roof, when she'd come down here just like he'd expected, wanting to lash out and make a point after she… wait a minute…

No.

There's no way she… No, it couldn't be…

Then, just at the edge of the glass where the nasty splice job was, he saw a very familiar clawmark.

Unbelievable.

He raced back to the roof and – Yes, there she was, looking insufferably pleased with herself.

"You are so easy sometimes," she smiled with adoring disdain.

"So the trip helped," he noted with a grunt. "Feeling your old self again?"

He remained stern and disapproving for a full second before a lip-twitch betrayed him.

"You could put it that way," she purred, pawing the edge of his cape playfully.

"Good," he graveled. "I have something for you."

"Don't I know it," she chuckled seductively, placing a clawtip on his belt.

"Selina, what are you doing?" he asked, eyebrow arching behind the mask.

"You still can't return a serve," she teased.

"And you're still sticking your fingers in places they don't belong," he noted, removing her hand from his belt.

She laughed wickedly, evading his grasp and returning to the belt as if to prove his words, and expecting to score a set of batcuffs as her fingers curled around a cold, metal object. She yanked it triumphantly, then saw the "cuffs" she intended to play with were a different kind of… toy… prop… something. Her playful expression curled into one of confusion.

"I have no earthly idea what this is," she said, turning it over repeatedly.

There are few sights as endearing as feline bewilderment. Batman managed to hide his amused enjoyment of the scene as she pressed a silver button on the tip, twisted the device, pointed it at the rotunda, shook it, held it up to her ear, and finally sniffed it.

"So are you going to put it back?" he asked, pokerfaced but unable to achieve the gruff bat-voice that normally delivered that particular ultimatum, "Or do I have to take it from you?"

She paused, an unprecedented naughty grin warming the air between them.

"Oh please," she purred at last, voice rich with seductive mockery. "Take it if you think you can…"

"It's not a question of 'can,' Catwoman. We both know—" he stopped mid-sentence, his hand shooting out and grabbing hers.

"Woof," she said simply as his eyes locked onto hers while he curled back her captive fingers and retrieved the object.

"That's not your gift," he growled ominously, not releasing her hand or breaking eye contact.

"Astonish me," she challenged with a playful snarl.

There was a crackle of paper and a folded packet whisked into the space between them, just beneath his nose. Selina's eyes flickered with excited curiosity between his and it. Maintaining eye contact, she freed her wrist with a slow, delicate twist and snatched the packet.

Unconsciously, Batman held his breath as she opened it.

"It's… a Gotham Post?" she murmured, sliding the folded newspaper out of the packet. She glanced at him curiously and back at it. It was a suspicious curiosity, the kind his enemies often shot at him. Then she unfolded the paper carefully, her pupils widening, and she swayed from sudden shock. Batman did nothing but mentally prepared to catch her, just in case…

"It's me," she gasped softly. "It's me. I'm… purple. I'm purple in the Gotham Post…" she looked up at him, stunned. "I'm purple in the Gotham Post?" she repeated.

"Don't get too excited," he cautioned, "It's just the one picture."

"I'm purple in the Gotham Post," she said again firmly, trying to wrap her mind around the reality of the situation. "Catwoman the truth at last," she read off the cover. "Is this a joke?" she hurriedly checked the back for a Nigma Novelties tag or other indications of a fake newspaper.

"It's not a joke. It's the actual Gotham Post. The article inside admits, after a fashion, that the creature they've been reporting on in the East End isn't –and never was– the real you."

She bit her lip thoughtfully.

"Finally catching up with everyone that saw Cat-Tales mumble years ago, bully for them," she whispered to herself. Then she looked pointedly at Batman. "Okay Stud, this isn't a deal-breaker, but after all that dimension-hopping are we _absolutely certain_ I came back to the right one?"

Batman's lip twitched.

"We're absolutely certain," he said dryly. "The universe is the same, Kitten. It's the Post that's changing. Extensive personnel changes, overhauling of editorial policies… in light of new ownership. Look at the rest of the package."

She slid out a thick folder and several printed contracts. Her brow knit as she skimmed these, her eyes darting around the page, then slowing as she read in detail.

"You didn't… Bruce, you didn't _buy_ the Gotham Post, did you?" she asked, titillated but somehow horrified by the thought.

"No," he said quickly. "It would be disastrous in too many ways to list, disastrous for both Bruce Wayne and Batman, if I started buying newspapers because they print something I don't like, especially something _about my girlfriend_. A move like that would bring scrutiny we don't need. Buying the Daily Planet was bad enough, but once Luthor was elected it really couldn't be helped."

"But this _is_ a sale," she noted.

"Yes. Wayne Enterprises facilitated a sale of the Post to a third party, a respected media conglomerate whose other properties deal in real news, they own no other tabloids. New ownership, new blood… who knows? Maybe things get better. Happy Anniversary, Selina."

She beamed.

"Take off that belt, I'm gonna do you right here," she exclaimed.

He snapped the silver button on the strange object, and it played back Selina's statement _"Take off that belt, I'm gonna do you right here."_

"This, by the way, is a digital recorder/dictaphone. Apparently, they're all the rage in the Daily Planet newsroom. Courtesy gifts for the new writing staff, courtesy of Wayne Tech."

"Gimme," she said, a charged note of lust in her tone as she grabbed it and began to play. He reached to take it back but this time she was ready and held it aloft as she backed out of his reach.

"Nonono, not this time, Handsome," she purred. "Not going to be half so easy this time around."

* * *

_"Take off that belt, I'm gonna do you right here." _

Batman's lip twitched as, eight rooftops and forty minutes later, he recovered the dictaphone. He had, it's true, lost the rest of his utility belt in the process – while Catwoman had lost her whip, the claw now embedded in his bodyarmor, and a small metal cylinder from her lockpick pouch. This last was about the same size as the dictaphone, which is why he grabbed it. It turned out to be a lipstick.

Her leg slithered up his as she kissed down the edge of his mask towards the chin.

"Stop playing with the bat toy, start playing with the cat toy," she suggested, curling tighter inside his cape.

"That's enough cat play for one night," he graveled. "I still have to patrol."

"Not likely, I've still got the belt," she noted, squirming a little, for the utility belt was under her back. It couldn't have been comfortable, but she was apparently willing to forego comfort to keep her plunder secure.

"Selina," he said sternly.

She licked her lips seductively.

"Selina," he repeated.

Her eyes gleamed dangerously.

"I'm not done with you," she growled.

"I'm not done with you either," he whispered, prying her clawtip from his bodyarmor. He took her hand, palm up, and silently placed the claw in it. "So have a nice prowl, then find yourself a cozy rooftop and look over your present. I'll come find you around three."

He waited. Then:

"Belt?" he prompted when she didn't hand it over on cue.

"Well," she smiled, easing it out from under her. "Maybe just this once, since you arranged such a splendid homecoming."

He grunted and she meowed. He put on his belt and she coiled up her whip. He retrieved his cape – and she opened the packet and stared again at her image in the Gotham Post.

"Purple," she purred.

Behind her there was a soft whssshk and she knew he'd fired a line. She raised her hand and twiddled the fingertips in a casual wave. She figured he'd already left, so she was surprised when she felt a warm presence still looming behind her.

"Remember, it's just the one picture," he warned. "Don't get your hopes up too much. It's still the Gotham Post."

She turned and looked up at him with feeling, her finger tracing the oval around the bat emblem as she had the "W" on the champagne flute that morning.

"I don't know what to say," she whispered warmly. "It's the most… amazing gift. Bruce… Thank you."

He grunted, and as she glanced again at the newspaper, he performed one of those instant bat-vanishes which irked everyone but her. She merely purred, resettling herself on the rooftop and opening the paper to the story inside. Her eyes darted over the words, her lips moving occasionally in surprise:

"Sorry about what we did, none of us had the right…" she saw with satisfaction.

Then her eyes narrowed.

Then her jaw set.

Then she started to growl.

* * *

...to be continued...


	2. One Month Later

_Chapter 2: One Month Later _

* * *

'Harley Quinn' surveyed the grand ballroom of the Robinson Plaza Hotel in a series of twitchy birdlike movements that any Gotham socialite (and now all Plaza waiters) recognized.

"Brucie, Brucie, Brucie," she muttered, "Bat-Bat-Bat, where did that man go?"

The Penguin finished his graceful dance with Poison Ivy and, with the ingrained etiquette of the ballroom, duly escorted her back to her friend before taking his leave.

"Too awful, he's late" Harley complained. "He missed the receiving line. All the guests have arrived, band is playing, bar is serving, and still no Batman!"

"A quick and silent disappearing act, from _him_?" Ivy replied in a bored drawl. "That's hardly unprecedented, Gladys."

"Forget that it's a Gotham After Dark party and we've no Batman," Harley Ashton-Larraby answered curtly. "It's also a Wayne Foundation Fundraiser and we've no Bruce Wayne. Claudia really, I thought you of all people would sympathize, considering how many of your parties he's skipped out on over the years."

Claudia-Ivy merely shrugged. It was the nonchalant shrug of an experienced Gotham hostess long used to Bruce Wayne's stunts – or it would have been in a Carolina Herrera gown – but in an unfamiliar leafy costume, the movement caused a great deal of fluttering, from the orchids draped so gracefully around her bodice through the fern leaves cascading down her skirt. Not for the first time since her arrival, the rapt attention of every man in the room was hers.

"Magnificent," Martin-Penguin gasped appreciatively to his companion.

"Certainly should be, considering what those titties cost," Richard-Mad Hatter-Flay replied in the campy tone gay men use to praise flamboyant divas. "But I don't know if the garden dress will make it through the night."

"We can hope," Martin whispered to himself. In his secret identity as _Hermoine_ the society gossip columnist, Martin knew he'd have ample material from the party without any "wardrobe malfunctions" (a term Hermoine herself shoved into the public lexicon after the notorious freezeray-hoopskirt incident at the Spring Fling). Martin's interest in Claudia was more personal. Gotham Society had always assumed he was gay, and Martin never minded. It kept him at the front of the hostess rolodex as a handy fill-in to cover last-minute cancellations. But since his brief affair with that stunning Dinah Lance, Martin found he liked being in a couple. It was more enjoyable attending party after party with the same person, even if it would put an end to his "extra man" status. Hermoine's social schedule wouldn't _have_ to suffer as a result. If he were with a partner like Claudia Reislweller-Muffington, that would _ensure_ his place at the A-list parties, not jeopardize it.

Plus she was beautiful, just beautiful. Just look at her, every man in the room's eyes riveted on her as Poison Ivy. From Dick Grayson to Nightwing, every man in the room was entranced.

"Nightwing" was, in fact, Harvey Dent. Since his healing he'd been accepted back into Gotham society and was the only true "night person" (apart from Selina) to be officially invited. He'd accepted, against his better judgment, in order to help out Selina and Bruce. Despite Harvey and Batman's best efforts (well, despite Batman and Harvey's best efforts), plenty of the Iceberg crowd – the real Iceberg crowd – was still at large. This idiotic idea for a costume party was sure to attract at least one crasher, and poor Bruce had already suffered a rogue encounter this year with that pompous al Ghul showing up at Wayne Manor. Harvey had helped then, shooing the miserable goatherd off the premises, and he was prepared to do the same tonight.

As such, he repositioned to get a better look at a suspicious-looking Riddler. The costume – a suit of snug green leather with matching bowler hat, set off by buttons, kid gloves, shoes, mask, and rim of the hat all in a vibrant fuchsia – was very, _very_ good. But then most of the costumes in the room were. The rich didn't skimp on their appearance any more than real rogues. What set this Riddler apart from the rest was the cane – green again, with a gold question mark handle. It too was not unique in accuracy or quality – but it was the only Riddler cane in the room that looked used. The handle didn't gleam under the lights, and there were scratches all the way down to the worn rubber base.

Harvey tapped the suspicious figure on the shoulder… and was not surprised when Edward Nigma turned in his direction – and smiled brightly.

"Evening Harv, don't you look spiff?" he said, clearly viewing Dent as a friendly face in a strange, hostile land rather than a bouncer fixing to eject him. "Nightwing eh? You always were a lady's man."

"Er, thanks," Harvey murmured, disarmed by the unexpectedly gracious greeting. The invited guests weren't half as sensitive. Indeed the most common remark on Harvey's costume had been… exactly the one Randolph/Joker Larraby was about to deliver, Harvey guessed, as the slightly inebriated host toddled their way.

"Dent. Good to see you," he began. "Gladys was so pleased you accepted, lends just the right touch, she says. So, why aren't you dressed as you-know-who?"

"Voldemort?" Harvey asked, unfazed – for it was the sixth time he'd been asked.

"Ha ha!" Randolf snickered, then – noticing Claudia/Ivy making her way to the dance floor again with Martin/Penguin, he relocated for a better view in case her foliage slipped.

Harvey turned back to Nigma, whose mouth had dropped open in shock.

"Why aren't you dressed as you-know-who? Lends just the right touch? Even Batman's not that… that…" Eddie exclaimed, and Harvey reconsidered ejecting him from the party.

Instead his eyes drifted back to the dance floor and Claudia/Ivy. Talking now with the only man in the room that knew his history with the real Poison Ivy, Harvey could finally speak the thought that had echoed in his brain since first seeing the imitation.

"Now _that's_ alabaster skin," he croaked in a hoarse but admiring voice.

"ALA BREAST" Nigma agreed. Then when Harvey's neck snapped fiercely in his direction with a dangerous Two-Face glint in his eye, Eddie quickly exclaimed "_Alabaster_, it's an anagram for alabaster. A ABEL STAR, A SLAB TEAR, A BRA STEAL."

Harvey growled at this second reference to Claudia's stunning orchid-draped bosom, but he couldn't really blame Nigma for the chain of thoughts. Both men returned their attention to the dance floor and watched in awed silence.

Across the room, Dick tore his eyes away from the image and moved in on a "Robin" helping himself from the buffet…. A Robin who was, in fact, Robin.

"You're supposed to be in hiding with BG," Dick whispered angrily. "Monitoring the situation and waiting to swing in as the first response if something goes down."

"Yeah but it's a costume party, Bro, no reason I can't sneak down for just a minute and get a sandwich is there? Besides, Cass said to bring her a cookie."

"If he saw you, PsychoBat would go – well – psycho."

"Yeah he would," Robin agreed. "If he was here, but he's not. –Why isn't he, anyway?"

"I'm not sure," Dick sighed, glancing towards the door. "I heard he and Selina were here earlier before the party started, checking in with Ashton-Larraby and all. I think B wanted to quash the red carpet, keep any press from snapping pictures as guests arrived. Then something happened. They took off. Bruce said they'd be back but…" he checked the door again. "…Check it out. They're late."

"Late or… _late_?" Tim asked carefully.

Dick turned in a slow, even burn.

"Don't even go there," he pronounced firmly.

Across the room, Harvey/Nightwing was delivering a warning in similar tones to his companion.

"Glad as I am for the company, Edward, I don't want you making trouble for Selina."

"Why would you think I'd make trouble?" he queried.

"Why else would you be here? These shindigs are never something one goes to expecting to have a good time. The only reason to crash –this one in particular- is if you're planning something."

Eddie's face puckered into an offended grimace then brightened into an I'm-so-clever grin.

"_Two_ holes in your theory, counselor," he declared triumphantly. "First - Riddle me this: what makes The Riddler 'The Riddler?' Why, announcing every crime as a puzzle to be solved of course! And has any such clue been delivered? No. And secondly: When is a Rogue more than famous? When he's 'Infamous!' This party is like a Neilsen rating for the 'Berg crowd, Harvey old man! What other reason do I need to attend but to gauge name recognition and popularity?

"Look at all the Jokers – not surprising really, although you have to wonder. The idea of people - husbands and wives, especially – dressing up as Joker and Harley. It's just so …How clueless can these people be? But fine, Joker is the most popular, regrettable but expected. Who is next, I ask you? Look around the room, and who do I spy with my riddling eye? There – and there – and there – and there – Why it's me! I count six proper Riddlers, and three regrettable GenX versions from the Post. No one else has so many repeats. I see three or four Penguins, a few Scarecrows, two Mr. Freezes, three eh _You-know-who_s, and one silly ass dressed as Cluemaster. Must work in television."

Eddie broke off suddenly and he and Harvey parted to allow a… figure to pass. The figure was presumably attempting a Clayface costume, although he looked more like a "Giant-Pile-of-Walking-Poop-Monster" than a Gotham Rogue.

The true rogues simply watched in horror as the "Clayface" made his way across the dance floor… past a woman in a wheelchair talking to a decent looking Robin by the buffet… and finally took a plate and heaped what appeared to be chocolate pudding onto it.

"One can take a theme too far," Nigma said thoughtfully.

"Quite," Harvey agreed.

Barbara had wheeled up behind Dick and Robin/Tim. She wore a man's suit and held a plush Batgirl doll in her lap. Tim figured she was supposed to be Ventriloquist, but he waited for some confirmation rather than asking.

"Good evening, Goy Wonder," the doll seemed to say in a far more skillful feat of ventriloquism than Arnold Wesker ever achieved.

"Heh, Hi there," Robin grinned. "Boy that's really clever. And you're good, Babs, really."

She smiled as if she had no idea what he was talking about and no awareness of the doll in her lap. It answered rather than Barbara.

"I am cute, gagycakes, gut you're in gig trougle. You're not supposed to ge here."

"She's been doing this all day," Dick said with a theatrical wince. "I'll be discussing it in my upcoming book, Why I Kill."

"Goo hoo, Girdygoy," the doll said. Then Barbara seemed to notice Tim for the first time and smiled warmly. "Don't let them pick on you. Dickie wasn't above making an ice cream run or two when he was supposed to be staking out the docks."

"'Scuse me," Dick said, still eyeing the door and moving suddenly in that direction. Tim gave Barbara his full attention. "Okay, I get that you're Ventriloquist. But what's Dick supposed to be?"

Barbara laughed. "He's Clayface impersonating Dick Grayson."

"Sweet!" Tim exclaimed.

"Not really, it's not as clever as it sounds. He had been planning to come as 'Batman' so we'd have an extra on the premises if something happens. But then the Post came out this morning and, well – this way he gets to introduce the subject of a Dick Grayson imposter to everybody he sees tonight."

Tim grimaced.

"Babs, it's the Post. You guys know that nobody takes it seriously, right?"

"I know but… Does make you wonder if maybe Selina is right about them."

"Yeah," Tim nodded – then his attention riveted on the dance floor.

"Is that?" he gasped.

"Harvey Dent, yeah."

"No not him, who he's dancing with. That Ivy, that's not… it _is_, it's… oh god."

"She's some socialite, I can't keep them straight. Dick knew her, but I don't remember the name."

"Muffy," Tim said soberly. "Technically Claudia Reislweller-Muffington… of the Reislweller-Muffington school of debutante Ninjitsu."

Barbara laughed at the joke – but Tim didn't.

"It's not funny," he insisted. "She's the oldest – and she's got sisters. Georgiana, Clarice and Madeline. They cast no shadow; they make no sound. All of a sudden they're just _there_ and they want to waltz."

Barbara's laugh was building to a cackle.

"I accidentally threw Randy-quad into a fountain when Madeline was stalking me at the Colonial Ball last year."

Barbara's laughter became strident.

"I hear men can tell if another guy has 'waltzed' just by looking at him," she teased. "That's a 1-2-3 limp, not a pressurized ice dart limp."

"I said I was trying Capoeira, the rhythmic dance-like Martial Art of the former slaves in South America," Tim answered with dignity, then he grinned. "Nobody bought it."

"But I'll bet Bruce hasn't laughed like that in years, sans SmileX exposure," Barbara smiled.

"He did say he remembered the time Becky Rutherford tried to teach Dick Capoeira. And Alfred mentioned that 'the charming Miss Hellinsford' or as Bruce refers to her 'whatshername-Gretta' might have been a factor in the decision to get kicked out of Princeton and go to Oxford, on the theory that 'England's got to be far enough.'"

Barbara's chortle defused into a knowing smirk.

"You're lying through your teeth," she declared. "There is no way – simply no way. That's not Alfred, that's not Bruce, some things just do not happen in this world and that—"

She stopped short, her eyes growing wide with some shocking sight behind him.

"Oh my god," she murmured.

Tim turned, and felt his mouth drop open at the sight.

"Bruce?" he gasped.

It certainly looked like Bruce… in a batsuit. It looked _exactly_ like Bruce in a batsuit, minus the mask.

It looked exactly like Bruce in a batsuit, not wearing a mask, and escorting Catwoman into a room full of…

"What were you just saying?" Tim asked feebly.

"Some things just do not happen in this world," Barbara recited dully.

"Yeah that's what I thought you said," Tim nodded, still stunned.

It was a suit he had only seen in a case in the costume vault: black gloves, boots and briefs over gray tights. There was a small black bat printed directly on the chest, no oval or other enhancement of the emblem. The belt on the other hand was _yellow_. Bright yellow – road sign yellow – "Look at this" yellow – which would more than a little off-putting on a BELT if it wasn't completely upstaged by the CAPE! The costume in the case, Tim remembered, had a black cape and cowl. Bruce was wearing neither. His face was bare, but the cape – the cape was a rich royal blue, thin and shiny, like silk. It almost looked like a bedsheet except it was properly scalloped at the bottom, just like a regular batcape.

"Evening all!" Bruce greeted them, grinning with foppish cheer.

"Um," Barbara said.

"Hi?" Robin asked.

"You're not supposed to be here," he graveled through clenched teeth, then ran his fingers through his hair and announced loudly. "Of course not, mustn't muss the hair. Besides, how else would everyone know it's me!"

"I'll get back to my post," Robin murmured apologetically.

"Do," Bruce graveled, then broke into another foppish grin and slapped Catwoman's backside. She'd been eying various women in the room, and when she thought they were looking her way, she turned to display her profile. At the slap, her eyes snapped back to meet Bruce's in a murderous stare.

"I'm getting a drink," she hissed. "Strong, alcoholic, and the first of many."

"Selina," he said quietly. "Alcohol impedes judgment. _Not_ in this room, _not_ tonight, please."

"That's not all it does," she spat. "You have your point to make and I have mine. I am going to be seen drinking _alcohol_, _especially_ in this room, _especially_ tonight, and all night long."

Before he could answer, a mad Joker-like cackle ripped through the room. It wasn't any of the 14 Jokers present but the Riddler, the real Riddler, Edward Nigma, pointing vaguely in Bruce's direction as wave after wave of helpless hilarity rocked his insides. He slapped his thigh, pounded his fist up and down as if on an imaginary table, and finally doubled over, hyperventilating with mirth.

"If I didn't know better I'd say that's a SmileX attack" Barbara said dryly. "Are we absolutely sure Joker is in Arkham."

"We're sure," Selina answered as Bruce wandered off to belatedly greet the other guests. "He's so despondent he's on suicide watch."

"Because he's missing this," Barbara noted.

"Best joke ever," Selina said absently, looking across the room.

"I was sorry to see your Post troubles," Barbara said kindly.

"I was sorry to see yours," Selina answered – when Harvey approached. Selina glanced twice at the redheaded leaf-garbed woman beside him, but she held her tongue. After the introductions, Harvey left Claudia with Barbara and pulled Selina aside.

"Is Bruce all right?" he asked, concerned. "He seems to think the phrase 'Judgment of Paris' from Greek Mythology has something to do with Ingrid Bergman from Casablanca - and that _Ingmar_ Bergman the Swedish director is somehow connected to Paris Hilton."

Selina looked in the direction Harvey indicated, and Bruce had the cape swept up over his shoulder and across the neck like a World War I fighter pilot.

Selina rubbed her temples and said, "Excuse me," before heading off in the direction of foppish laughter.

"Hey Selina, this is interesting," he said, gesturing with a fistful of cape as she approached. "Did you know flying aces wore those silk scarves so their bulky flight jackets wouldn't chafe their necks? I'll bet that's what the capes are for, because this thing isn't Kevlar or anything and it's _really_ uncomfortable."

She pulled him to a quiet alcove, checked to make sure they were alone, and then snarled.

"Would you tone it the hell down! This goes beyond being foppish or stupid; people are going to think you're _drunk_."

"Kitten, I have been doing this long enough without any direction or assistance from you."

"They'll think you're getting drunk because of the- you know," she gestured, "the story in the Post about the-" she gestured again, helplessly.

"Look, I know you're upset about that story, Selina. I am _standing_ here in _public_ in a _batsuit_ because of it. I have gone this far. But that image has to be counteracted in their minds, and the only way to do that is—"

"That's how you got me pregnant in the first place," she hissed venomously.

"Look," he said firmly, "You can blame me for the blonde East End imposter if you want, but I did _not_… You got _yourself_ pregnant with that dictaphone."

"You got me pregnant _fopping out with that dictaphone_."

There was a spurting noise above them, then a soft click, then the grate above opened and Batgirl climbed down. She walked up to them solemnly and said, "Tim say tell you we can hear. In vent. We hear everything. Please stop. Him no can breathe for laughing."

"I hate you all," Selina said sweetly.

Batgirl put her hand suddenly to her ear and her head tilted as she listened.

"What is it?" Bruce asked sharply.

"Is starting. Scarecrow in ballroom. Is real one, Robin say. He get into position. I go."

"No _I'll_ go," Selina declared instantly. "I feel like setting someone on fire, he'll do nicely," she added, meeting Bruce's eyes before he could interrupt. "All that straw."

"30 seconds," he declared, "and then Robin and Batgirl will be in position to support you. The rest of us will be there in four minutes tops."

"Take your sweet time, Jackass," she said counting off the rest on her fingers. "Zatanna mindwipes, East End goggle-imposter, knocked up by the Gotham Post, and now I'm at Gladys Ashton-Larraby's rogue party with bat-fop. At this point, there isn't a thing fear gas can do to me the rest of you don't already have covered."

* * *

…to be continued…


	3. One Month Earlier

_Chapter 3: One Month Earlier _

* * *

Selina came down to breakfast as she had every morning for the past week: in a foul temper veiled behind a pleasant smile. It was unusual for her. Like any cat, when she was troubled, angry, or annoyed she expressed it freely, as when she was happy, playful, or lustful.

In the case of the Gotham Post, however, she didn't feel exactly free to growl and hiss. Bruce had gone to so much trouble, and probably considerable expense. It was the most astonishing gift she'd ever received – the most astonishing gift anyone ever received. When she thought about what he'd actually done, it gave her chills. For the past week she couldn't look at him without feeling it all over again. Like now…

She'd waited until he was in the shower before she looked at the newspapers Alfred brought on the breakfast tray. She bypassed the real news in the Gotham Times, and with stomach clenched in dread she opened up the Post. "Catwoman" was still in the East End, still carrying on like she gave a shit about that grimy, repellant corner of the city, still consorting with the lowlifes that lived there, and still fighting crime! First they admit that idiocy is a tissue of lies and then they go right on doing it! Selina was so angry she'd marched across the hall, tripled the tension on her Bowflex, and worked out until her muscles screamed with a fiery pulling pain. She hadn't worked out half her fury but she went downstairs to breakfast, still in a disgusted, sick, ferocious, wrathful funk—

And there he was: Bruce.

Bruce who'd done this amazingly wonderful thing for her.

She couldn't hiss and growl at his gift, she couldn't.

She just couldn't.

So she did the unthinkable and buried Catwoman's ire behind a sweet, loving smile and purred "Good morning, Handsome."

"Morning Kitten," he answered, buttering toast. "If you're not doing anything today, Lucius is coming over with Gladys Ashton-Larraby to discuss this fundraiser she's putting together for the Foundation. She asked pointedly if you could attend."

Images of the Post's goggled counterfeit and the images of Batman-the-wonderful presenting her with a purple-Catwoman gift flickered out of Selina's focus as this new idea moved in behind the frozen mask of her smile.

"_Why?_" she asked suspiciously.

"I've no idea," Bruce said honestly. "But that's why the meeting is here at the house instead of the office, so you can sit in."

"I do not like the sound of this," Selina noted, pouring herself coffee.

"Neither do I," he said grimly. "but it goes with the territory."

Selina was about to object. He might not like it either, but for entirely different reasons. He might chafe at Gladys Ashton-Larraby's snobbery and pretensions, but he was Bruce Wayne and her event was for the Wayne Foundation. As he said, it went with the territory. Selina's unease was very different. She'd acted as hostess at plenty of Wayne functions by now, so it wasn't that, not exactly. But being in on the planning of some Wayne Foundation fundraiser? That seemed a bit much. "It goes with the territory" Bruce had said. –For him, not for her. Why was she being involved in this so particularly?

And why could that wretched tabloid writer go so far as to print "I'm sorry about what I did to you. I didn't have the right, none of us did," _and then go right on doing it? _

Fury spiked again, and Selina bit off a piece of croissant like she had a grudge against it. A growl vibrated deep in her throat, but she bit it back when her eyes fell on Bruce again.

"Sure," she said forcing the growl into a warm purr. "For you my love, I'll make the time."

He looked startled but pleased, nodded, then grunted.

"We've got a few hours yet," he noted, dipping unconsciously into the Batman voice. "I have some work downstairs if you want to keep me company."

"Sure," she agreed in the same forced purr. It was an unusual offer, but he'd obviously missed her while she was away, just as she had missed him, and they hadn't had much time together since her return. So she accompanied him to the cave and watched while he opened a metal chamber. He took out a small digital device attached to what looked like a pound of C-4, a second identical digital clock, and a bag of loose chips and irregular scoops of the white claylike explosive.

"This is why you were late last night," Selina noted wryly.

"This detonator was never activated," Bruce graveled, pointing to the one on the left. "This other one was, so I removed most of the explosive after defusing, but I still wanted to store it in the coolant tank overnight before examining it further. These guys had no idea what they were working with. This wouldn't simply blast open a vault door, it would decimate everything inside and probably the perps as well."

"Amateurs," Selina sniffed, disgusted. "I never had to blow a safe door in my life."

"They can't all be you, Catwoman," he murmured, engrossed in his work.

He meant it in one context, but she heard it in another. There was no thief like Catwoman – ever.  
She was Selina Kyle as Selina Kyle invented herself: Gotham's greatest thief – free, independent, and purple. She had style, wit, grace, intelligence, beauty – and Batman. That was Catwoman. _She_ was Catwoman. And that disgusting tabloid was making her out to be some insipid gutter-trash crimefighter in goggles. Still they pretended Catwoman was some ex-whore crimefighter running around the East End in goggles, even if they finally admitted that idiocy was not Selina Kyle…

"C-4 plastic explosive is a favorite," Bruce was saying, "because without any kind of triggering mechanism, it's a relatively harmless compound not unlike modeling clay. You can mold it, stretch it, cut it or shape it without concern; without a catalyst it won't explode-period. You can set it on fire; it simply burns like a piece of wood, though somewhat hotter. You can shoot it with a high-powered rifle and it won't go off. But add some kind of detonator, like a blasting cap or an electronic detonator like these, and it's incredibly destructive."

"Mhm," Selina answered, her eyes narrowing.

…The Post finally clued in that the image they'd been offering of a goggled crimefighter was completely incompatible with the true Catwoman – something _she'd_ made perfectly clear all those years ago from the stage of the Hijinx Playhouse. Yet they'd continued all this time, stubbornly ignoring what everyone else in Gotham knew: _that's not Catwoman._ Now, at last, they were prepared to admit the truth…

"The primary agent, commonly called RDX for 'Research Development Explosive,' is mixed with a binding agent and a plasticizer, and usually a 'chemical marker' like _dimethyl dinitrobutane_ mixed with motor oil. The result is a completely inert clay-like substance that needs the proper amount of energy from a detonator to cause a chemical reaction in the compound. When the chemical reaction begins, the C-4 decomposes to release a variety of gases, notably nitrogen and carbon oxides, which expand at about 26,000 feet per second and ignite."

…But unable to come right out and say they lied, the Post tried to explain it away with a bit of typical Gotham Postitude. They latched onto the Dr. Light story and decided that Zatanna – ZATANNA the mindwiping tnuc – had done the same thing to Selina that she'd done to Dr. Light and the Top… Well not _quite_ the same. Dr. Light only got a lobotomy. "Selina" apparently got a crappy apartment, a closet full of spare Trinity outfits, a whiny whore hanging around like her sidekick and a Harvey Bullock wannabe acting like her boyfriend…

"…two metal-tipped plastic prongs sticking out of the back of the detonator. When the timer reaches zero, a high-voltage current would pass between the two prongs, providing just enough energy to detonate the bomb."

Selina slammed the nearest object on the nearest surface, which happened to be a batarang on a mousepad – which failed to make the desired clang and instead produced a muffled thud.

"Why tell me?" she blurted. "I don't disarm bombs, Bruce, it's not my kink. Other than being glad they didn't blow _you_ up, I really don't give a shit whether some hopeless amateurs tried to rob the federal depository last night. It's got nothing to do with me."

He looked up, astonishment blotting out any other reaction. Before his anger overcame the shock, Selina's had given way to that lingering warmth and gratitude for the initial gift.

"Sorry," she murmured, strangely off-balance. "Guess my coming down here wasn't such a good idea. I should get ready for this Ashton-Larraby thing anyway."

Bruce watched curiously as she walked up the stairs and disappeared into the clock passage.

* * *

Harvey Dent set down the newspaper, his mouth twisted into a pucker of… of…

He was of two minds. He hated admitting that, but he was of two minds about what he'd read.

He was pleased, in a way. The Gotham Post, which had barely mentioned him since his face was healed, was suddenly portraying him as a good guy. They made him out to be a crimefighter, maybe not on par with Batman, but out there all the same, fighting the good fight: stopping bank robbers, holding a line against criminals as he'd one done as D.A. and… and balancing the scales, in a sense, for the crimes he'd committed as Two-Face.

That was where the second reaction came in. In reality, Harvey hadn't done much of anything with his new life except rebuild his wardrobe, reactivate his membership at the Harvard Club, and resume a tentative social life among people who did not appear on the GCPD's most wanted list. The thought of making up for the past had honestly not occurred to him. As District Attorney he fought to make criminals pay for their crimes. As Two-Face he'd been obsessed with balance and counter-balance, good and evil. How could he have failed this way, failed in both his mindsets, to recognize that need to, somehow, make up for what he'd done?

This Harvey Dent in the pages of the trashiest, most repugnant tabloid in Gotham, in this tabloid that made all living souls out to be monsters a hundred times worse than their true selves, was doing what Harvey himself never thought to: making amends.

Harvey wondered if he should do likewise. The idea was strangely unappealing. He felt he ought to, certainly, but he didn't want to.

Not at all.

His hand felt achingly empty. A decision like this, a decision like none he'd faced in all this time since the healing – like none he'd really faced ever in his life. What he wanted to do and what he felt he ought to do were… were completely… opposed. Black and white. Opposite sides of the… This went beyond his fingers itching to flip the coin. This was deeper, beyond habit, beyond uncertainty, beyond anything.

He closed his eyes and, in that dark cavern of his thoughts, he visualized the coin: the smooth edge, the ridges just inside the rim, the raised spikes of the liberty head, the rough crease where the deep scars cut across her face.

**_Visualizing the scarred side,_** Two-Face pointed out in his mind's ear.

Harvey shook himself. Two-Face was gone. Gone forever, just like his scars, as long as he never again used that coin, used fate or chance, to make a decision. Two-Face was gone. He, _Harvey Dent_, had visualized the scarred side of the coin…

It meant only what he knew before: he didn't _want_ to go out at night and be a crimefighter. Maybe he should, maybe it would be noble and right and worthy to put himself on the line that way and make up for the harm done by Two-Face. But he didn't want to, and he wasn't going to. There. Decision made. The end.

He picked up the newspaper and dropped it into the trashcan in disgust. He really didn't know why he bought that silly thing.

* * *

It was earlier than Edward Nigma liked to get up. Like most rogues, he kept a late schedule even when he wasn't actively engaged in a crime spree. His schedule wasn't exactly "up at dusk/bed at dawn", but it was such that eight a.m. was too early to start the day. Yet here he was, awake, dressed, and making breakfast of a cold bacon cheeseburger he'd picked up the night before and stuck in the refrigerator, knowing this would occur. He ate as he waited by the phone for the inevitable. When it happened, he picked up on the first ring.

"Good morning, Pamela," he said wearily before she'd spoken. "Yes of course I knew it was you. You've only been calling every morning for a week… No you do not get anagrams. At this hour, you're lucky you get verbs… Because we do not all share the plants' love of sunshine, Ivy."

He pulled the phone from his ear and rested it against his forehead as it chirped into the air in an excited female voice. Eddie took a deep breath and returned the phone to his ear.

"Yes Pammy, that's wonderful news," he said automatically.

Every day for week, he thought. It had been wonderful news every day for a week. Such wonderful news that Poison Ivy had to share her joy with someone, and evidently a greenhouse full of plantlife wasn't adequate. Eddie wasn't sure why he was so "honored," but every morning once she'd seen her new coverage in the Post, that phone rang and the festivities began.

"M-hm," Eddie said at intervals, adding the occasional "Yes" "Good" and "Yup" for variety. He hadn't seen any of the previous stories she was talking about. As far as he knew, nobody had seen them. But evidently some little corner of the tabloid that nobody paid attention to had falsely reported that Poison Ivy was dead, and now they had corrected the error. It didn't strike Eddie as any great cause for celebration, at least not at eight o'clock in the goddamn morning.

The cheeseburger had left a light greasy film on its waxpaper wrapper, and on this Edward Nigma scratched out the word POTS with his fingernail. Followed by TOPS, SPOT, OPTS, STOP and finally the generator for these anagrams POST.

"Yes certainly," Eddie murmured into the mouthpiece, having no idea what he was agreeing with… apparently, that unlike previous 10ish years worth of the Post which was an unforgivable waste of newsprint, this issue was a noble use of nature's most glorious creation (trees) and these gracious and dignified wood titans (trees again) did not give their lives in vain.

GOTHAM POST would produce a far more extensive list of anagrams, and Eddie reached for a pencil and began scratching out HAG MOST POT, HAG MS POTTO, HAG PS MOTTO…

* * *

"Gotham After Dark?" Selina said weakly.

"Yes, Dear," Gladys smiled effusively, setting down her teacup. "That amusing column in the Gotham Post about all the night people. Surely you know of it."

"Yes," Selina said with a strange charge in her tone. "I know it. I know all the columns in the Gotham Post, Mrs. Ashton—"

"Gladys, dear."

"Gladys," Selina bit off the word with a feline snarl.

"Such a splendid idea for a party, don't you think? I mean if we're going to insert an extra fundraiser into the social calendar to fund these new programs, we simply have to offer something more than another dreary chicken a la king dinner dance."

"Y-yes," Selina managed, looking in panic to Bruce, to Lucius, and even to Alfred, but finding only shocked stares as stunned and horrified as her own. "But surely, Missu- Gladys- The rogues aren't exactly- Nine out of ten Wayne events get hit as it is and… Somebody help me here."

"No," Bruce said forcefully. Then realizing, from Selina's startled stare more than anything, that there was entirely too much Batman in his tone, he began stammering like the fop. "I mean it'd be fun, sure, to dress up and all, but I have to consider the safety of my guests."

"Some other kind of costume party," Selina suggested impulsively. "Some period where they wrote with feathers." She looked abashedly at Bruce. "That way only Penguin would be pissed, right?"

"Oh Pish," Gladys exclaimed, "I don't see why any of these 'rogues' or whatever they're called would be insulted if we used them as a theme. Why imitation is the highest form of flattery!"

Bruce was stymied by the need to quash this idea in the strongest possible terms and to keep any traces of Batman from creeping into his manner as he did so – which was almost impossible on this particular topic. Fortunately, Selina had no such qualms about behaving openly as Catwoman.

"I don't fancy the idea of being in a roomful of goggled wannabes in bikerchick catsuits," she snarled.

"Oh my dear of course not!" Gladys gushed. "What on earth do you take us for? Why everyone knows that _you're_ Catwoman and that you're with _Bruce_, so obviously Catwoman is taken… That was such a lovely picture of you too, in that last edition; Randolph and Randy-quad both remarked on it. How beautiful you look in purple and how nice it was that they finally got it right."

"Oh," Selina breathed, disarmed by the removal of her strongest objection. "Well, it was nice of them to notice."

"I'm sure Selina agrees with me that _Catwoman_ isn't really the salient point," Bruce managed, finding a tone at last that was neither too foppish nor too Bat.

Selina's eyes flashed with a gimlet look he'd seldom seen outside a bank vault. Behind him, Alfred performed the swift and silent maneuver the Gotham underworld called a "Bat-exit," but which Alfred himself considered a tactful withdrawal such as any butler knows to execute at such moments in the interests of discretion, diplomacy, and common sense.

"No, I wouldn't agree with that at all," Selina said with calm finality. "I'd say Catwoman is very much the point. If we're talking about the Gotham Post, I'd say whether or not Catwoman is in purple or not, or wearing goggles or not, or… is _ME_ or not, is very much the fucking point, Bruce."

She caught herself before going further, collected herself, and primly folded the napkin in her lap.

"Excuse me," she said quietly. "I'm going to check with Alfred about lunch."

* * *

Dick Grayson emerged from the bedroom at the crack of noon, stretching his arms in a circular motion as he crossed the livingroom, as if he was swimming into the kitchen.

"Morning sweetie," Barbara called, looking up from her laptop. "Have a good night?"

"Good to be back on a normal schedule," he answered loudly from the kitchen. Then he returned, drinking orange juice from the carton. "It made a nice change working with Cassie for those few weeks, but I'm glad to be on my own again –and really glad to be back in Bludhaven. I'm going to go back tonight, probably every night for a week or so, to make up for the lost time."

"Chip off the old block," Barbara teased.

Dick stared as if physically struck at the thought. Then he took another swig of juice.

"Maybe a little, just in this one area," he admitted.

"Maybe a little?" his wife countered. "You were doing a full patrol in Bludhaven twice a week, as a rule. So in watching Gotham those few nights while Bruce was away and having Flash do a quick run through 'Haven each night, you lost exactly _nothing_ in patrol-time. Then partnering with Cassie since then—"

"She needed that more than Bludhaven needed Nightwing," Dick interrupted.

"No one is arguing that point," Barbara put in. "Partnering with Cassie, and not wanting to take her out of Gotham because of the whole Robin-ice cream sundae thing, okay. So how much did you really fall behind in Bludhaven?"

"It's not a mathematical formula, Babs."

"Three. You missed _three whole nights_ in Bludhaven. The way you're carrying on, you'd think they got bombed back to the Stone Age."

"I'm not 'carrying on,'" Dick insisted. "I just… I feel like I've been neglecting my best girl and I need to make it up to her."

Barbara took off her glasses, raised an eyebrow, and glared.

"You better be finishing that orange juice and not figuring on putting it back in the refrigerator," she said crisply.

"Let me clarify the whole 'best girl' analogy," Dick said quickly. "What I meant was—"

"Chip. Off. The Old. Block," Barbara said definitely.

Dick let his head rock backward until his eyes pointed to the ceiling.

"Okay, fine, you win," he laughed. "I'm Bruce. I'm obsessed with my city. Grunt."

Barbara winked.

"Truth is," she pushed, "Bludhaven has hardly been the loser in all this. With Flash looking in on it every single night, whereas you only patrol twice a week as a rule."

"Why are you making such an issue of this?" Dick asked suddenly.

She thought about this, and then took a determined breath before answering. "I just think it was good for everybody. Bruce took a little vacation, he and Selina got some time together, Alfred is happy as a clam, you were wonderful leading the team…. I don't want there to be any after effects that sours anybody on doing it again."

"The all-seeing Oracle," Dick said fondly.

She smiled and didn't deny it.

"Cyber-busybody," he added.

Again she smiled and didn't challenge the label.

"I owe Wally huge," Dick noted. "Thinking maybe take him and Linda to dinner. What do you say?"

"Sounds good," Barbara murmured, returning her attention to her laptop. "Oh and the Gotham Post is at it again, bird-o-my-heart. The Nightwing Workout."

Dick stared.

"Why me?" he asked.

"'Cause you've got the tightest tush in spandex, Dickie. The Tattler made quite a stir with that 'Riddle Me Thin' idea and tabloids copy each other."

"Why come up with a new idea when you can repackage the 'Buns of Steel' workout," Dick laughed.

"Something like that," Barbara smiled.

* * *

"She's… a little emotional today," Bruce said hurriedly as he stood to follow Selina out of the room. He caught up with her on the second floor, at the door to her suite.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he hissed softly.

"Have you even read the Post since any of this started?" she hissed back.

"I'm on damage control down there, Selina, and I'd appreciate a little support instead of—"

"They're fixing everything _except_ me, Bruce: Batman, Robin, Riddler, Ivy, everything they've made such a _mess_ of, except me. And you know why?" She held up the dictaphone. "Because of you. They know you arranged that sale; WayneTech gave them these. Even if you didn't buy the Post outright, they know you were involved and they don't want it looking like all these changes have anything to do with you. So I get screwed. Gladys is right, everybody knows that we're together. So I get left out of all the improvements just so they can make it look like the changes can't possibly be connected to Bruce Wayne."

He let out a long, frustrated breath.

"Okay," he said quickly. "I'm sorry; I wasn't aware of that, but… Can we possibly deal with this later, go downstairs now and deal with the fresh disaster. A Gotham Post party, God, only Gladys Ashton-Larraby could possibly—"

"Their big editorial revamp is now, Bruce. If Catwoman doesn't get a piece of it, who knows how long it will be until— Do you know how my gut clenches up when I open that paper each morning? Do you know how sick I feel turning the pages, dreading what they might have come up with this time?"

"Selina, please," he said simply.

"Yes, fine," she answered, then placed the dictaphone in his palm in the same confrontational silence that he'd handed over her claw on the rooftop. "I will come downstairs and talk to Gladys. But this isn't going to go away, Bruce. I haven't been able to keep breakfast down for three days because of this, and it's all your doing. Hope you're pleased with yourself and your big romantic gesture."

Neither heard the quiet click on the dictaphone. Both proceeded downstairs, and both tried to make Gladys Ashton-Larraby understand that her idea of a perfect themed fundraiser might as well put up a banner that said "HELLO GOTHAM ROGUES, PLEASE CRASH THIS PARTY!!"

It didn't go as Bruce hoped. Gladys Ashton-Larraby was almost a rogue herself once she latched onto an idea. She had the same selective comprehension, the same unfathomable blind spots, and the same stubborn resolve to carry on in the face of any and all opposition. Bruce was hampered by his fear of appearing too Batlike in his arguments. Lucius was flummoxed by the sheer insanity of the woman's thinking. And Selina – Selina was his one solid hope. She humored and handled the worst rogues in Gotham. But she had a weak spot that no theme villain would ever find but which Gladys could exploit without even trying: Mrs. Wayne. Selina was off-balance in any situation that put her in "Mrs. Wayne" territory for the first time. As long as she could speak as Catwoman, the only person in the room with first-hand knowledge of the real Gotham City rogues, she felt perfectly secure. She was sure, succinct, and persuasive, and her arguments would have swayed anybody – except Gladys Ashton-Larraby.

In Gladys's peculiar view, the very fact that Selina Kyle was Catwoman meant the party was secure. Yes _of course_ Wayne events might have been targeted i_n the past_, but now that Selina was with Bruce they were all safe as can be!

Selina was obviously confused by the appeal. She confirmed, with a wary eye to Alfred, that the party, of whatever theme, wasn't going to be held at Wayne Manor. It was to be in the Grand Ballroom of the Robinson Plaza Hotel, Gladys was organizing it, Gladys would be the hostess. What did any of it have to do with her?

Gladys merely smiled a wide, hungry smile, and stated the obvious: "It's to benefit the _Wayne_ Foundation."

"Yes, I know," Selina said in the same tone she'd earlier said she knew the Gotham Post.

"Well there you are!" Gladys announced triumphantly.

* * *

…to be continued…


	4. Okay, New Plan

_Chapter 4: Okay, New Plan_

* * *

Bruce managed to hold Psychobat in check – barely – until Gladys Ashton-Larraby left the manor. He walked her to the door himself and tactfully laid the foundations for the next step in Operation STOP THIS. He returned to the drawing room where Lucius had remained, apparently for the sole purpose of stating the obvious: that a "Gotham After Dark" fundraiser was an unspeakably awful idea, and having lunch. Tibetan mental disciplines combined with telepathic blocking techniques learned from Martian Manhunter were just sufficient to get Bruce through lunch, to get Lucius escorted out to his car in a polite, civilized manner, and to get Bruce back to the house – where Selina and Alfred stood waiting in the foyer.

"This is not going to happen," he declared the way Batman commanded armed goons to _put down the gun NOW!_

Selina, long familiar with the tone, looked casually at Alfred then back at Bruce. She mimed a quick wave of a magic wand and said "Okay-Poof. Well that's done. What's next?"

Bruce reflexively made a fist and growled that he would be in the cave.

An hour later he returned to the manor and found Selina in her suite, sketching something.

"Hit me," he announced abruptly.

She looked around, picked up a framed photograph from the table – one of her lynx at the Catitat affectionately rubbing against her leg – and wordlessly threw it at him. He caught it with a quick, economical movement, then grunted.

"Not like that," he growled. "Suit up, come downstairs. I need to focus on this and I can't clear my head."

"I thought that's what your Zogger- death-machine worse-than-anything-Joker-can-come-up-with is for," she said absently, returning to her sketching.

"It's not working. I need a real workout, a real opponent. I need- some kind of- Only Gladys Ashton-Larraby could possibly-"

"Bruce, you're developing this bizarre habit of not finishing sentences," she noted with a grin.

He shook his head in frustrated bewilderment.

"Only Gladys Ashton-Larraby," he repeated, while Selina carefully closed her sketchpad and set it aside. Noting her movements, the care she took that he couldn't glimpse what she had drawn, Bruce assumed it was a new costume design. Unconsciously he glanced at her legs, which she noticed. Their eyes met in silent, mutual recognition, as if he had asked openly about the new costume, as if she answered that yes, she was trying a skirt again but short this time so it wouldn't be in the way… then, from long habit, they both swept the subject aside and let the unspoken simmer under another topic entirely

"I knew leaving town was a mistake," he grumbled. "Something was bound to get missed. Dick did fine with the team, Alfred runs the house better when I'm gone than when I'm here, but Lucius… Lucius letting that woman throw a party under the Wayne name – what was he thinking?"

"If you're going to try and pin this on having left town," Selina growled, "then I _will_ suit up and kick your ass."

Bruce suppressed a lip-twitch. For years, she had delighted in baiting him every time she found an angle that had an effect. For once, he had the chance to retaliate.

"Look at the facts, Kitten. I turn my attention from Gotham for just a few days and the wrong decision gets made. No," he shook his head. "No, never again. If it's something _important_, like a League matter, that's one thing. But a few days of fun with you? Never ageagh—"

Another man would have actively cried out as the wrist torque twisted the parallel bones of his forearm into contact. But Bruce was expecting the attack, and he was so accustomed to the Nikkyo maneuver by now that the intense pain of the torque was only a sharp sting he could suppress long enough to lead the attacker into a pin.

"Something I should have mentioned a long time ago," he graveled while sweeping Selina around on her own momentum, "A Nikkyo is such a common defense against a wrist grab, I worked up a tolerance for the twinge in six months. Without the instinctive pain response, all you have to do is loosen the elbow and…"

He yanked, and she was spun into his favorite torso-pin, her back to his chest. It was a strength-based hold, and usually she changed strategies at that point, opting to distract or misdirect him rather than pitting her strength against his. But today she thrashed and snarled like a wildcat, her heel somehow reaching high enough to drive into his knee and pushing off from there to launch herself upward. He bucked backward and his arms popped open, releasing her just as she thrust upward, so that they tangled and landed in an unseemly heap, Selina on top. She spied the previously-thrown picture frame, picked it up and smacked him with it.

"Something _I_ should have mentioned a long time ago," she said tersely, "you're a jackass. Oh wait, I did mention that, didn't I."

Rather than answer – or rise - he massaged a sore spot on top of his knee where her heel had dug in. She remained on the floor next to him, looking at the photograph.

"I did get my hopes up," she said quietly. "With the Post. You said not to and you were right but… how I could I not. I was right there, all purple and… looking like me again. Things were going to change and instead… Catwoman is still a cheap, ignorant, goggled, crimefighting, whore."

"But it's not you," he put in, trying for a silver lining.

"Wouldn't know the difference between a lynx and a leopard," Selina insisted, indignant. "Wouldn't know the difference between a Monet and a Manet, wouldn't know the difference between… between… Batman and a pheromonally-challenged imposter with ego deficit disorder."

"It's just the Post," Bruce said mildly.

"It's just blasphemy is what it is, against cats, women, and Selina Kyle. Catwoman is the sum total of the choices I've made in my life. And I hold onto those choices in the face of public – There comes a point where –"

"You're developing this bizarre habit of not finishing sentences," Bruce noted with a grin.

She chuckled reluctantly.

"Selina," he said seriously. "This isn't really the Post we're talking about, is it? This is Xanadu, and… what happened before?"

"I don't know what you mean," she said with the exaggerated innocence of a catburglar caught with a handful of Winthrop rubies.

"The idea of alternate realities has brought sane, scientific men to the brink of madness," Bruce said gravely. "It's provoked crises of faith, of identity – and that's just theorists performing calculations. They didn't travel into one. You did. You stepped right into the shoes of several different Catwomans-that-might-have-been-_if_. I know it has to have been… unsettling. We're _all_ the sum total of our choices, Selina. To actually see – not wonder but _see_ first hand what your life might be if you'd… or if you hadn't, if… "

He trailed off. Selina smiled.

"Bizarre habit. Not finishing," she said sweetly.

"God knows I've wondered," he murmured.

"Bruce, in every world I saw, you were still _you_. I don't think Batman is a 'choice' for you, certainly not like becoming an architect or taking a vacation in Hawaii; Batman is who you _are_."

"Just like you're Catwoman," he said warmly. "But I didn't mean Batman; that isn't the choice I wonder about."

She met his eyes and for a long moment the words hung unspoken in the air until, at last…

"You mean us," she said quietly.

"There's a curio full of cat figurines in the corner of my bedroom, Selina. Some mornings I wake up and see that, and I just can't wrap my brain around it… I think one of your cats steals my socks."

"That's Nutmeg," she said wryly.

"Not the point," he pronounced in Batman's most exasperated rooftop gravel.

Selina rolled onto her back, laughing as a month's worth of unfocused tension gurgled to the surface.

"And tell me," she managed through spurting giggles, "Bat-o-my-heart, what exactly in that hero-addled brain of yours _ is_ the point?"

He waited until her laughter subsided, then indulged in the briefest lip twitch before answering.

"I'm glad you're here, Selina, in this house, in my life. That's the point. You're good for me. That's what the gift was for, arranging the sale of the Post. That's the point. That… and the fact that Gladys Ashton-Larraby wants to throw a 'Gotham Post Party,' god help us all."

"Whoa whoa, back up," Selina cried, crawling onto him with a seductive purr. "You raced right over the good part. Go back and say that again."

He stroked her hair, once, then picked her up only to stand himself and set her back down on the floor.

"Thank you, Kitten. I needed to focus, and that's what you helped me do."

"Woof," she grumbled as he left.

* * *

Mozart. Poison Ivy was so sick of Mozart.

She'd had a very bad year. Catfight. Gargoyles. Harley defecting – which was how she viewed her friend not flying to her side the instant she broke up with Joker. Two-Face deserting her – which was how she viewed Harvey's face being healed. Selina… well, Ivy didn't have a word for what Selina did, but her cozy little arrangement with Bruce Wayne was annoying. And Wayne! Failing to come up with anything better than a Whitman Sampler to express his devotion to Ivy when he'd given Selina diamond catpins! It was a bad year. A very bad year. And Ivy had taken what comfort she could in her parks. Her larger lair in Robinson Park, her smaller one in Riverside for when she wanted to be completely alone.

And in that time she had neglected the greenhouse. It was a painful admission, but it was the truth. She had retreated into the parks and virtually forgotten about the rarest, most exotic breeds she kept in the remote greenhouse near the flower market on 26th Street. So now she was making amends, like any good mother, spending as much time there as she could with her precious babies, lavishing attention on them and indulging them. She played them music. They liked music, and most of all they liked Mozart. So Mozart was played: Piano sonata in B flat major, Concerto for Piano and Orchestra in A major, Overture to The Magic Flute, it all sounded alike to her. And it was all starting to sound… well "annoying" wasn't the word, not annoying like Selina's happy little lovefest with the richest man in Gotham (who gave her diamond catpins of his own free will when all he brought Poison Ivy was a box of chocolate creams), but the music was bothersome all the same.

She was trying to concentrate, trying work out the proper way to approach the makers of this throat lozenge, with their "natural soothing herbal extracts" wrenched essence from the flourishing bodies of elderberry, horehound, hyssop, lemons, linden flowers, peppermint, sage and thyme! It was a massacre, an absolute massacre. And her research into the murdering fiends responsible got no further than the manufacturer's website when she discovered the lozenge was only one of _sixty_ products they made, all herbal-based "remedies" and "treatments," butchering Gaia-only-knew how many helpless, innocent plants to cosset revolting human hypochondriacs!

She had to do something, certainly, but she could barely think with that perky flute, or maybe it was a clarinet trilling up and down, up and down. It was enough to give a goddess a headache.

So Ivy put her plans aside for the moment and searched her desk for an aspirin. She didn't find any, but she came across the previous day's Gotham Post, still folded open to the page with the retraction about her alleged death. It was small, as such admissions always are, but supported on the following page by a proper picture and a respectful (for the Post) if not quite accurate account of her attack on the Vanguard Building.

Good coverage. It wasn't much, but it was virtually the only good thing that had happened to her in a year. She searched the desk again, not even caring when she found the aspirin she'd wanted a moment before. She rummaged for scissors, and stroked the edge of the paper before cutting it. She neatly clipped out both columns, blew a kiss to her babies enjoying their (still annoying) Mozart and told them she'd be back shortly. She was going out to buy a scrapbook.

* * *

Jervis Tetch could not keep a secret. Everyone in the Gotham Underworld knew it. To the police he was the Mad Hatter. To the Gotham Post he was "the wily and elusive madman who uses his knowledge of computers and technology to satisfy his criminal desires…" But in the Iceberg Lounge, he was more often referred to as Gossip Gertie.

Yet for weeks he'd kept to himself the strange misadventure of Edward Nigma's loveletter, sent by mistake to police headquarters while the riddle-clue meant for Batman went to Kittlemeier's and his order for exploding question marks was delivered in to his delectable (ex)puzzlemuffin, Doris.

Jervis wasn't especially loyal to Nigma, he just didn't think it was very good dish. Everyone knew Eddie had been completely infatuated with Doris. And if they didn't know during the affair, they certainly knew after the breakup when he dug in at the Iceberg wallowing in the most atonally self-pitying country music on the jukebox for hours at a time. And now he'd written a love letter. It was hardly juicy gossip. It hadn't occurred to Jervis to _mention_ it until Jonathan Crane asked why he hadn't.

Crane happened to be at Kittlemeier's when Eddie had burst in, with Jervis in tow, to retrieve his letter. Crane didn't know as much as Jervis, but he knew _that there was something to know._ Eddie had burst in, there was talk of a letter delivered by mistake, frantic demands for its return, and when the further mixup was revealed, Eddie had fainted. Crane knew, certainly, that there was a story there, there was a tale to be told. He knew Jervis was a gossip. And yet Jervis hadn't said a word. What, he demanded to know, did Nigma have on him? By what frightful application of terror and dread was he able to silence Jervis's clattering tongue?

Jervis had assured him there was no fear anywhere in the equation, no threats, no blackmail, no off with his head. He would be the first to spread the word if the knave of hearts brought him tarts worthy of his attention, but Eddie writing a gin-soaked letter to his ex wasn't a heart-tart. It wasn't a tart of any kind.

These denials were taken proof, positive proof, of Scarecrow's theory. He was now convinced that Riddler had Jervis completely under his thumb and nothing Jervis said could persuade him otherwise. It was rather embarrassing, the fuss Jonathan was making about his "poor friend" being "bullied and manhandled." The pitying tone, the condescending smile…

It was embarrassing, but Jervis began to wonder if it might be an opportunity as well. If Jonathan was so determined to see him as a bullied victim, was there some way he could turn this to his advantage?

Now that was a riddle worth solving.

* * *

Bruce called Mrs. Ashton-Larraby to another meeting, this time at the Wayne offices, one-on-one. No Lucius being tactful, no Selina being appeased because there wouldn't be faux Catwomen involved. Just Gladys Ashton-Larraby and the man who stood toe-to-toe with Ra's al Ghul, with Darkseid, with _Joker_. He went into that meeting as he would into battle.

Unfortunately, before he could launch his prepared attack, he was blindsided with a new assault entirely: as head of the Wayne Foundation, Gladys expected Bruce to attend the party dressed _ as Batman._ Having to counter THAT godawful idea, Bruce heard himself proposing modifications for the very theme he had called the meeting to veto.

"Well, we all know it's the villains that are more interesting," he enthused, trying to sound convincing though the idea that made him physically ill. "That's what everyone will talk about the next day, right? So how about a supervillain theme, rather than generic 'Gotham After Dark.'"

"Oh Brucie, you're a genius!" came the rapturous reply, and Bruce assumed that was the end of the Bat costume. They went on to discuss hotels, catering and decorators, while Bruce tried to reconstruct his arguments against having a Gotham party at all…

Until Gladys bit her lip thoughtfully, and Bruce sensed a new danger.

"Of course, it still wouldn't _be_ a Gotham nightlife party without Batman," she announced. "And you're just perfect for the role! Who else should escort Catwoman, after all! Oh, and that darling Selina can certainly let you in on all the secrets for getting a really _authentic_ costume made."

Feeling the earth crumbling under his feet, Bruce spent the remainder of the meeting trying to keep himself out of a batsuit rather than pursuing his original objective: shutting down the party.

While he continued to argue with Gladys, his mind sifted through contingencies… Bruce Wayne's costume – any costume – could not be cheap, third-rate, or improvised. Whatever he did as _Bruce Wayne, the head of the Wayne Foundation_, had to be in keeping with his wealth and position. A bad costume would be suspicious on the one night he could not afford any flaw in his public persona.

He also could not risk, under any circumstances, appearing as Batman at a gathering where so many had seen Batman first hand. Gotham's elite were frequent crime victims; it went with having money and position, and many attending a Wayne gala would have seen Batman in person – as had the rogues who were certain to crash…

Which led to a third consideration: whatever Bruce's costume, it had to be such that he could easily change into Batman when the inevitable criminal incident inevitably occurred.

As these Bat-thoughts consumed more and more of his attention, Bruce's outward behavior became more and more foppish to compensate - until he "accidentally" flipped on the dictaphone, expecting to broadcast Selina's lustful _"Take off that belt I'm gonna do you right here."_ It was a premium bit of foppery worthy of the worst excesses of the playboy rake. Instead the digitized voice declared, _"This isn't going to go away, Bruce. I haven't been able to keep breakfast down for three days because of this, and it's all your doing. Hope you're pleased with yourself and your big romantic gesture."_

* * *

Ivy was surprised she didn't feel more satisfaction as she closed the cover on her new scrapbook. It was such a magnificent victory. She felt some sort of glowing celebration was in order, if only…

Well.

She had her plants to share it with. What more could anyone want?

Harley certainly wasn't one for sharing a friend's good fortune, not one to be happy simply because her friend was happy. No she was far too busy amusing herself with Hagen (of all the repulsive flower-murdering fiends) to even notice Ivy's good fortune.

And Harvey, Harvey wasn't a candidate to share confidences anymore, to celebrate together, to… well anyway, he wasn't available.

Selina, while hardly a friend, could still be a good listener and good company. But on this particular subject, no. She could hardly go to Catwoman to celebrate the Gotham Post admitting their errors and restoring Poison Ivy to her proper appearance and place in the world.

And Nigma, well, she'd already called him twice today. The last time he said something about squeezing orange juice and grinding coffee beans – extra fine. She asked if he was making breakfast and he said: "No, for fun."

* * *

Jervis Tetch rearranged the chessmen for the fourth time, then he picked up the black knight, removed his hat, and scratched his head with it. Chessmen were an integral part of the Mad Hatter's theme, but the game of chess really wasn't. Not played fairly. Not without live chessmen, appropriately hatted, so you could simply order the rook to stand aside and let your pawn pass. Or failing a lifesize hatted rook, there were times if the queen checked your king you had to declare her a "fruminous bandersnatch," take out a croquet mallet, and smash her to bits.

Jervis knew he had a strategically valuable whatsit in Scarecrow's idea that he was somehow being bullied or blackmailed by the Riddler. A strategic frolimawuggit, that's what it was. But he didn't have any idea how to use it. He wasn't a mastermind, that was the problem. His was a criminal mind that could pose and puzzle, permutate and perambulate, gyre and gimble like the maddest of hatters, the reddest of queens, and the jabbiest of Jaberwocks. He could chortle in his joy, chortle all the frabjous day, Callooh! Callay, he could – what was he saying? Yes, he was not a mastermind.

You had to stay focused for that, focused on the big picture, and Jervis didn't have the gift.

Of course…

Nigma did.

Nigma most certainly did.

How wonderfully circular that would be: to have the Riddler advise him on manipulating Scarecrow's idea that Riddler was manipulating him – THAT was the kind of thing the Mad Hatter excelled at, wheels within wheels, it all made perfect sense if you looked at it with a kind of mental squint. He would go see Eddie at once, and together, they would— teatime! It was teatime. He would go see Eddie after tea, for now it was time for bread and butter.

* * *

Gladys Ashton-Larraby might have been a social gorgon, but she was also lady. It would have been grossly ill bred to make a fuss over what she'd heard on that dictaphone. It would embarrass poor Bruce to even acknowledge it. Her surprise showed for only a split second before she hid it in a rapt "listening to music" face as she studied a painting on his office wall.

Bruce cursed good manners. He recognized Gladys's pretense, for he was raised to the same standard himself. In her place, he would have done exactly the same thing (assuming he wasn't playing the loutish fop): pretend not to hear. Unfortunately, her polite pretense demanded he do the same. It made it impossible for him to explain or deny anything. He could only carry on with the meeting as if nothing had happened. Then he could only walk her to the elevator chattering about the weather – while Batman began constructing a new protocol.

There would be no third attempt to derail Gladys's plans for "Gotham After Dark," that much was certain. After this second try had escalated from a generic Gotham theme to "Supervillains" and the suggestion that Bruce go as Batman, he knew better than to risk another direct assault on the event itself. He would have to _finesse_ it in other ways, although he hated "finessing" something which by all rights should be pummeled into unconsciousness and deposited at the Arkham admissions desk. Still, as much as it sickened him, the situation could not be hit, hunted, punched, slapped, or intimidated. It had to be finessed.

Both he and Selina would make the briefest possible appearance at the fundraiser – in regular evening dress, no costumes. It might come off a bit rude and superior, blatantly eschewing the party's theme, almost snubbing the guests who would attend in costume. Bruce didn't mind being rude and superior, although he wouldn't normally do so at a Foundation event. But it was better to take the hit than run a needless security risk.

And he would spend each night until the party rounding up every rogue he possibly could on any pretext he could think of. Jaywalking, downloading movies from the Internet, ripping the labels off a mattress if necessary, he would find some way to get them out of circulation on the critical night. He would draw up a detailed At Large List as soon as he got home, and prioritize it accordingly. – Although the prime threats were obvious: Joker for his fixation on Batman, Riddler and Hugo Strange because they knew the secret…

"And of course Catwoman."

"Hm, what?" Bruce grunted foppishly.

"Brucie, you dear man, like all dear men, you simply don't listen," Gladys drawled. "_'Gotham'_ in strong angular lettering, deep blue like everyone associates with Batman, and then _'after dark'_ in a lush flowing script in purple – like Catwoman!"

Bruce stared blankly.

"For the invitations!" Gladys beamed.

"Oh yes of course," he growled.

"Never mind, I'll call her myself. Men!"

* * *

…to be continued…


	5. New Plan Doesn’t Seem Better the Old One

_Chapter 5: The New Plan Doesn't Seem Much Better than the Old One_

* * *

Riddler paced. Not since the day of the great revelation, the day he stumbled upon the last piece of the puzzle and saw clearly the answer to the ultimate riddle (WHO IS BATMAN UNDER THAT MASK?) had he paced so feverishly. For not since that day was he confronted with such a confounding conundrum.

The tabloids might be good for a laugh now and then, but there wasn't a word of truth in their pages and anyone with an ounce of intelligence knew it. To keep up with what was really happening in Gotham, you had to read a real newspaper, and Edward Nigma, like most men of intelligence, started each day with the Gotham Times. His early morning wake-up calls from Poison Ivy had one benefit in that he was starting the day much earlier than usual. At 7:12 he hung up from Queen Chlorophyll's daily update on her much improved press and he opened his Times to the crossword. At 7:26 he finished the crossword and noted his time: a dismal 14 minutes and 12 seconds, more than three minutes over his average of 10 minutes 41 seconds and almost _TWICE_ his fastest time, 7 minutes 28 seconds.

So much for the so-called benefits of early rising.

He turned to the headlines, read through the national news, then turned to the local… business… technology… travel… entertainment… and finally before perusing the classifieds and opinion pages, he found the Style section and checked Hermoine's Society Chit-Chat.

He set down the paper, stunned, and stared into space for ten full seconds. Then he looked at the page again to see if the perplexing puzzle made any more sense the second time around.

_The Wayne Foundation asks us to open our checkbooks more often than any other philanthropic institution, and it might become tiresome if they didn't always make it worth our while. The newest addition to the social calendar, a masked ball called GOTHAM AFTER DARK, promises to out-do them all.  
Hm. The WAYNE foundation throwing a party based on the colorful "rogues gallery" associated with Gotham's Dark Knight? Surely, one cannot doubt the hand of the lovely Miss Kyle in this unique and daring theme. Readers will remember, I'm sure, that Selina Kyle starred in the infamous Cat-Tales stage show a few years back, and there are those who still argue if she might be the real Catwoman. But whatever her connection to the rogues of Gotham, there is no doubt of her connection to Bruce Wayne. For years now she has been escort presumptive of the once-notorious playboy, and more than one socialite has her hat all picked out for when that engraved invitation finally arrives bidding them to another stunning Wayne Manor wedding._

A picture from the Grayson-Gordon wedding appeared beneath that appalling paragraph, and that's when Nigma set down the newspaper and began pacing.

The first wave of nervous tension shuddered through his system as he recalled how Harley Quinn dragged him to that wedding, dragged him all the way out to Wayne Manor in a cheap suit and false moustache because she had to crash that reception (for reasons never explained, and considering Harley, Eddie figured that was probably for the best) and she thought she would look less conspicuous arriving with a date. He'd gone along, it went as well as anything goes when Harley Quinn is involved, and he'd done his best to forget it ever happened. He'd succeeded just fine until this Hermoine lunatic had to go reminding him.

If he knew then what he knew now… Bruce Wayne was _Batman_. Batman was _ Bruce Wayne_. Harley had taken him out to _BATMAN'S HOUSE _to CRASH A PARTY. If he had an inkling what that demented tassel twit was getting him into…

He hadn't begun to recover from that realization when the next shockwave reverberated through his still-reeling brain. A ROGUE PARTY?? Was he insane? Was he flat out paging-Doctor-Arkham-pickup-in-aisle-six insane? Was he SEA INN, AS NINE, SIENNA-- off his bat-noodle? Wayne wasn't stupid, he wasn't suicidal, that seemed to leave only crazy. Didn't he realize how insanely dangerous it was for him to be throwing a freaking costume party peppered with Batmen, Jokers, Riddlers and who knew what all might turn up?? What was he thinking? What was he going to do, Bruce Wayne at a costume party where everyone has to dress as crimefighters and rogues? Not that Nigma especially cared about Bruce Wayne's welfare. Apart from losing the only opponent with a mind fit to match wits with his own, he wouldn't particularly mind living in a world without Batman. But Selina was another matter. And Selina's fate was now, for better or worse, tied to Wayne's and…

…and even if Riddler wasn't above using her that one time, he did consider Selina a friend and…

…he would hate to see her Smilex'd or dismembered…

…fed to Joker's hyenas or…

He went back to the newspaper, that one phrase echoing through his mind – Selina's fate was tied to Wayne's now, for better or worse.

He reread Hermoine's coy prose. More than one socialite has picked out a hat…

She wouldn't

Would she?

And if she did, what did Eddie care? It's not like _he_ ever had a chance with her. They were friends all those years when they were both available, if there was any spark it would have happened. There wasn't. It didn't. So it wasn't jealousy.

But _something_ bothered him about that niggling little paragraph hinting so pointedly about a wedding.

So what was it?

* * *

Alfred was well aware that the movie room behind the armory, while not officially in use since Master Dick had moved out of the manor, was still an occasional "hangout" for both young gentlemen. They kept it equipped with the latest X-box and Playstation gear, while Alfred gave it a regular dusting, airing, and generally augmented Dick and Tim's superficial efforts to keep the place tidy. Neither he nor they ever alluded to the arrangement – until today. While Alfred was used to finding an occasional candy wrapper or an errant kernel of popcorn when he checked the movie room, this was the first time he found an actual occupant. Tim was asleep, curled around some kind of a video game console and using a box labeled **_Phoenix Ninja_** as a pillow.

Alfred coughed.

"Double or nothing, SilentShogee," Tim blurted, bolting upright.

"Ahem, good morning, Master Timothy," Alfred said blandly. "As it is a somewhat unusual hour to be paying us a visit, perhaps you would care to come around to the kitchen for some breakfast when you are ready."

"Hi, Alfred," Tim said meekly. "Breakfast?"

"Yes, sir. I have a pitcher of juice and a basket of muffins always on hand. For something more substantial, you would have to wait and join Master Bruce and Miss Selina when they come down."

"Uhh, no that's alright," Tim blanched. "I don't think Bruce would understand."

"It is indeed most unlikely that he would if you decline to offer an explanation, young sir."

"It's Cassie, Alfred. We had a bet and I lost and, well, you probably know, about the ice cream sundaes and all. Thing is, I think she's hooked on that mid-patrol sugar rush, cause now she keeps trying to get me to bet again. And I'm not sure how long I can put her off. So I have to get like ten times better at Phoenix Ninja and fast."

"I see, sir. Might one suggest that you simply decline further contests of this sort with the young lady."

"She calls me a chicken, Alfred. She has a vocabulary of maybe eight-hundred words tops, and half of them amount to ShadowBird, that's my avatar in the game, being a puny, chicken-necked wimp that she's gonna break like a twig. Can't let something like that pass, Alfred. I'll lose my guy-card."

Alfred suppressed a smile. He looked disapprovingly at a soda can and a smudge of tacky, sugary cola on the game console, then cleared his throat.

"Breakfast in the kitchen when you are ready, young sir," he said severely.

Tim nodded, and Alfred turned and left.

* * *

Selina growled sleepily and buried her face deeper in the pillow.

"It's for you," she murmured, shoving Bruce's hip.

Alfred merely stood at the side of the bed, holding the telephone on a silver tray.

"Give me a minute," Bruce managed, opening bleary eyelids. He knew the butler would never disturb his sleep for anything trivial, so he didn't ask if it was important. He didn't ask anything, not even who was calling, until he'd poured a glass of water, took a sip, then closed his eyes, focused his thoughts on his center of gravity and inhaled through his nose, slowly, steadily, feeling the air fill his lungs…

The meditative focus was wrecked by a beeping trill. Bruce's eyes shot open and he looked savagely at the phone on Alfred's tray. The beeping trill sounded again, and Bruce realized it was not this phone making the noise. He shoved Selina's hip just as she had done his, then graveled "It's for you."

She moaned, pawed around the bedside table, and finally found her cell phone resting in its charger.

"Hello?" she mumbled into the closed cover as it rang again. Bruce took the phone from her hand, opened it, and held it to her ear.

"Hello?" she repeated.

After that effort, Bruce felt sufficiently alert to answer his own call. "Bruce Wayne," he began.

_..:Lina? Is Wayne out of his mind?:.. _sounded on Selina's phone.

_..:HAHAHAHAA It's genius, Brucie, pure genius!:.. _was heard on Bruce's.

"Good morning, Eddie," Selina sighed.

"Joker?" Bruce asked cautiously.

Selina looked at Bruce and raised an eyebrow. He looked at her and scowled.

_..:This party, what's he thinking? What are you thinking? You trying to get yourself killed?:.._

_..:This party, it's brilliant, Brucie. The so-called villains in this town have gotten so boring. HAHAHA! Leave it to you to show'em how it's done, eh Brucie old boy, HAHAHAHAAAAA!:.._

"Oh right, the party," Selina murmured.

"Oh right, the party," Bruce growled.

_..:Gotham After Dark:.._ both callers said in unison.

"Yeah, Gotham After Dark," Bruce and Selina answered in sync.

"Eddie thinks the party is a bad idea," Selina said, covering the receiver.

"Joker thinks it's genius," Bruce replied.

_..:Unless you're trying to kill him:.. _Eddie suggested._ ..:Lina, if you've finally come around on the whole idea of killing him, I've got to say this gets top marks for style and creativity, but there are better ways to go about it, you know what I'm sayin?:.._

_..:Brucie, Brucie, I've got it. You know what you should do? HAHAHAHA! Oh it's too funny! You should, you should, HAHAHAHA, it's too good! You should go as Batman! HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA!:.._

"He thinks I'm trying to kill you," Selina reported flatly.

"He thinks I should go as Batman," Bruce countered, drawing several inches of the bedsheet into a coiled fist.

_..:Best! Joke! Ever!:.. _Joker sang out.

Alfred went about his usual routine on entering the Wayne bedroom in the morning. He opened the curtains and arranged slippers and dressing gowns at the foot of the bed, as if unaware there were any conversations going on.

_..:And what's this bit about having a hat all picked out for the wedding?:.. _Selina's earpiece quacked audibly.

"What?" she hissed in reply.

"What?" Bruce barked into his.

"Alfred, where's today's Times?" they said in unison.

_..:As long as I get to give the bride away and kill a Robin at the reception:.. _Joker was saying.

_..:'Cause I thought we were still friends, Lina, and I don't appreciate getting news like this from some newspaper gossip column.:.._

Alfred held out the paper, and Bruce and Selina both snatched at it, ripping the page in two.

_..:If anyone here knows of any reason why these two should not be wed, speak now - and forever rest in peace! HAHAHAHAAAA.:.._

"Shut up, Jack," Selina snarled at the phone in Bruce's hand, as she held up her half of the article, and tried to read over the tear.

_..:I mean all right, he's not exactly who I would pick out for you, 'Lina, and Lord knows you can do better, but still, a phone call. A guy wants to be kept in the loop!:.._

"Shut up, Nigma," Bruce spat.

_..:Oh she's right there, HAHAHA! Whipcrack! Eh Brucie boy, HAHAHAHAHAAAAA!:.._

_..:He's there! What we can't have a simple PHONECALL NOW?:.._

"Of course he's here," Selina hissed, still trying to read the torn paper, "It's morning, Eddie, it's damn early in the morning, we're in bed."

_..:AHH too much information, TOO MUCH INFORMATION!:.._ Nigma wailed.

Selina simply closed her phone, handed it to Alfred, and asked him to throw it out the window.

"Yes, I'll tell her," Bruce said before hanging up his and replacing it on the tray.

"Throw that one out the window too," Selina suggested.

Bruce gave her that rooftop glare when he didn't appreciate her sense of humor, but rather than wink playfully as she usually did, she looked deathly serious.

"You don't imagine those calls were the last, do you?" she asked.

Before he could consider the question, the phone rang again, and Bruce looked at Alfred.

"Throw it out the window," he said flatly.

* * *

Four times since hanging up the phone, Eddie reminded himself that he took 14 minutes and 12 seconds to complete the Times crossword. Clearly his mind was not at its best today. Clearly he should consider the question carefully – any question he should consider carefully – before acting.

Calling Selina that way was rash. He needed more information, certainly, you couldn't solve a jigsaw puzzle with only one piece. But calling her first thing in the morning and artlessly asking was not the way to go about it.

Information, Information, Information. How best to gather information…

* * *

Bruce was surprised, but hardly displeased, to find Tim sitting in the dining room. The boy murmured something Bruce didn't really listen to, something about going a few rounds with Zogger after patrol and then crashing on the couch, Alfred offering him breakfast… Bruce didn't care. Tim's presence in the house was a convenience. He would brief Dick, Barbara and Cassie tonight, but Tim could be told now, immediately, and Robin would get a few hours head start. He could help sort through the At Large lists to start with and possibly—

"What are you doing here this early?" Selina asked coldly. She had bypassed her place at the table and went straight to the sideboard, poured herself a cup of coffee, and glared suspiciously at Tim. Despite the lack of costume, she looked (and sounded) remarkably like Catwoman accosting a crimefighter who surprised her mid-break-in.

Tim repeated his story about Zogger, the couch, and wanting some breakfast. Selina poured milk into her cup with a markedly feline expression.

"You haven't seen a newspaper?" she hissed suspiciously.

"No," Tim said frankly.

"Okay then," she sighed, seeming satisfied. She resumed her usual manner, took her place at the table, and took a sip of coffee. Then the hostile felinity spiked again and she looked up at him as a new thought struck her. "Don't," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am," Tim said sarcastically.

Over breakfast, Bruce outlined the plan. They had just over three weeks. They would get every rogue they could off the streets before the night of this party. Joker was the top priority, then Riddler and Hugo Strange, then everyone else – everyone – from Cobblepot down to Catman, every rogue they could lay their hands on had to be removed from the equation before that party.

* * *

After a nap, a brisk jog and a shower, Nigma felt at last he could think clearly. He began to see a more likely explanation for the theme party, a more likely and far more troubling explanation.

No, Bruce Wayne was not insane and neither was Selina. He wasn't stupid and neither was Selina. Ergo, they were not the ones responsible for this insanely stupid idea for a party. Someone else was behind that, and for some reason they were unable to stop it. The reason might be tied to Wayne protecting his secret, or it might be connected to that week or so that Selina was out of town. It didn't matter. Whatever the reason, the pertinent piece of the puzzle was that they were _stuck with it_.

And Wayne wouldn't like that.

Batman wouldn't like that.

And he wouldn't take it lying down.

It would be Hell Month without the venom. He'd be on a crusade to get as many criminals off the street as humanly possible, particularly the theme villains and most especially – Nigma blanched – most especially he himself, who knew the special tie between Bruce Wayne and "Gotham After Dark."

The realization sank into his insides like a sack of wet sand: he was about to be hunted as never before. He was public enemy number one on Batman's personal hit list – and glorious as that distinction might be if he had contrived it, having it THRUST upon him by some high society partygiver was not his idea of amusing irony. It was-**_AAAARRGGHH! _**He screamed as a loud pounding at the door interrupted his fevered thoughts.

He stared in wide-eyed terror at the door and the fierce pounding still going on behind it. Was this it? Was Batman here already? Was it- Wait. No. Batman didn't knock.

"Who is it?" he called with an exaggerated casualness that sounded almost like a drag queen's falsetto.

"Alice opened the door and found that it led into a small passage," a familiar voice answered from behind the door, "She knelt down and looked along the passage into the loveliest garden you ever saw. How do you expect to know who's behind the door unless you open it, Edward?"

Nigma sighed.

"Go away, Jervis," he called. "I am not receiving visitors."

* * *

Harvey removed the last sheet from his printer and read over the letter one last time while the ink dried. Satisfied at his eloquence, he folded it once, twice, and slid it into its envelope. He reached for a stamp— and froze, noting a strange shadow on the wall. He spun around savagely, and then sucked in his breath. He saw exactly what he expected to see, given the shadow, but it was still quite a surprise, given that it had no business being there.

"Batman," he said sharply.

"Harvey," Batman answered with a curt nod. He entered the room almost casually, and looked at the letter still displayed on the computer screen.

"Law Review?" he noted.

"Letter to the editor," Harvey replied. "Maybe I can't practice law anymore, but I can still subscribe to any publication I want."

"And write to the editor," Batman graveled. "And expect it will be published given your… notoriety."

Harvey's lips curled into a contemptuous smile.

"Law Review is pretty conservative. I don't know that they'd be that impressed by Two-Face's legacy."

"Not impressed, but they'll print it anyway," Batman sneered. "It's a unique perspective."

"It's also none of your business," Harvey sniffed.

Batman turned back to the screen. "The tainted evidence and illegal search issues raised by the modern vigilante," he read aloud, "it certainly sounds like 'my business,' Harvey."

"I don't recall inviting you to call me by my first name," Harvey said flatly, "or to come into my house and read my mail."

Rather than pointing out that Harvey was sending the letter in question to be published, Batman merely grunted, then abruptly extended his hand.

"Bury the hatchet?" he offered.

Harvey glanced down at the gloved hand, then lifted his eyes again to bore into Batman's.

"Two-Face would have said 'Sure, in your skull.'"

"I wouldn't make the offer to Two-Face," Batman pointed out.

Harvey considered this, chuckled at the obviousness of the statement, and nodded.

"I suppose not," he agreed, the antagonism receding as the two men shook hands.

Batman held the grip a moment longer than necessary and again met Harvey's eyes.

"If you want to make a difference again, there's a better way than writing OpEds for some dry, academic—"

"If you're suggesting what I think you are, no thanks," Harvey interrupted. "Don't believe what you see in the Post, I'm not a masked do-gooder kind of guy."

"Wrong paper," Batman said gruffly. "It's not the Gotham Post that concerns me. It's an item in the Times."

He explained briefly about the fundraiser, the theme, and the prominence with which Selina's name was mentioned.

"You think there'll be trouble?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Batman didn't bother stating the obvious.

"You stood up to Ra's al Ghul," Batman reminded him. "Why, if not out of friendship for Selina and Wayne?"

"You heard about that, eh," Harvey grimaced, embarrassed.

"I hear everything that has to do with Ra's al Ghul," Batman declared.

Harvey slid his hands into his pockets, walked to the window, and stared out at the city.

"What bothers you more," he asked suddenly, "Her name being linked to this whole party theme or her name linked to Wayne?"

"Don't believe what you see in the Post," Batman graveled, echoing Harvey's earlier statement.

Harvey continued to face the window, but tilted his head until a green glow from a neon sign overhead fell over half his face.

"Don't forget who you're talking too," he murmured in a distinctly Two-Face voice. Batman tensed, but Harvey turned slowly, a frank but non-menacing expression despite the glow from the window. "'_We'_ were there, Sport, certainly saw enough to know the Post doesn't know the _half_ of it."

Batman said nothing. And Harvey continued.

"In my opinion, the better man won. Bruce makes her happy. Wouldn't want to see anyone mess that up."

"Then help keep them both alive," Batman said with finality. "Help me remove as many threats as we can before that party."

Harvey's fingers twitched as if wishing for a coin. Then he nodded, once, and looked back out at the city.

"Alright. We'll help," he murmured.

But Batman had already left.

* * *

Eddie figured he had four or five more hours to come up with a workable plan. He'd had to admit Jervis Tetch to his lair. He couldn't let the man just stand out there in broad daylight - in that oversized hat, with his bow tie and his stopwatch – as if to say HELL-O! BATMAN! YOOHOO, ROGUES DOWN HERE!

So he'd let Jervis in and let him prattle. Something about Scarecrow and needing a master plan. He needed Riddler to devise a plan for him. Gratifying, he supposed, to have his genius recognized – if that's what was really going on. But the timing was suspicious. Very suspicious.

No sooner did he become Batman's most wanted, and Jervis shows up intent on drawing a bullseye around his head. Absently, a corner of Eddie's brain not occupied with the immediate strategy wondered if that line about the socialites' hats might have some deeper meaning. Probably not, but he left an asterisk next to the thought. For the moment, he had to get rid of Jervis, keep the demented little toadstool occupied in some way.

Jervis wanted a master plan, something as ingenious as it was subtle. Eddie pretended to think, and rummaged through his mail. He found a thick, narrow booklet. **_ZAGAT_**_SURVEY Gotham City Shopping,_ the red and gold cover proclaimed, _Covering over 2,000 stores in 50+ categories including Accessories, Clothing, Electronics, Sporting Goods, etc. ranked by over 7,500 avid Gotham shoppers._

Nigma opened the book eagerly and thumbed through its pages. He'd send Jervis on a positive scavenger hunt that would keep him running around town for hours – to a place called The Fountain Pen Hospital to get pen nibs, Habu Textiles for Japanese yarn, Fat Beat for vinyl records, Bicycle Habitat for racing goggles (may Selina forgive him), FAO Schwartz for gourmet jelly beans and a tote bag (he would need one by this point), and a shop called the Green Onion (although he had no idea what they sold, who could pass up a shop called the Green Onion?) And finally, feeling a little guilty that Jervis would be running around Gotham for a day or more for absolutely no reason, Nigma added the J.J. Hat Center to the list as a sop to his conscience. The book said it was "perhaps the only place in Gotham for a man to buy a real hat," and that would make Jervis happy.

More importantly, it would keep Jervis out of the hair for a while. The Mad Hatter believed the wild list of items he was sent to collect from such intriguingly-named stores must be clues. They must add up to a criminal scheme of the highest magnitude. The intricacy, the nuance, the subtlety, ONLY THE RIDDLER COULD CRAFT SUCH A SCHEME!

In fact, Nigma had no thought beyond keeping himself out of Arkham until the party. Gotham After Dark: a fundraiser for the Wayne Foundation – _that_ he had to see.

More to the point, Batman was determined he wouldn't see it, and that made it all the more vital that Nigma remain free.

He had wracked his brains ever since he sent Jervis on that fool's errand. He had wracked his brain but he could see no solution but to hide. He would leave the lair, run to ground, and lay lower than low. Let Batman waste his energies searching for the others, there would be no Edward Nigma to find until he showed up at that party, took a glass of champagne …which he now mimed taking from the tray of an imaginary passing waiter… and raised it in a toast… to Gotham After Dark!

* * *

…to be continued…


	6. Eddie in the Sky with Diamonds

_Chapter 6: Eddie in the Sky with Diamonds_

* * *

Since curtailing the more felonious aspects of her nightly prowls, Catwoman had devised a number of exercises to keep her skills sharp. Most of these took place in the heart of the wholesale Diamond District, a single block of 47th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues with names like Kestenbaum & Weisner, Friedman & Son, and D'Auria Brothers. Unassuming facades – behind which lurked the most sophisticated security systems in the world. At least one of the diamond exchanges, brokers, or cutters always had a new system and it was always the cutting edge of high tech: biometric and retinal scans, voice keys, motion, heat and light detectors, redundant digital and electromagnetic locks… Catwoman still broke into the Gotham Museum, the MOMA, and Cartier's from time to time for sentimental reasons, but she felt the Diamond District was all she really needed to keep her professional edge.

So she was struck to realize she hadn't broken into the Wayne Tower in almost a year. When she first added these "exercise" break-ins to her prowls, the Wayne building was a regular stop, almost as regular as Cartier. She delighted in exploring the different layers of security: the lobby and visitor areas, the regular offices, the secure floors that dealt in sensitive information from the R&D campus, the executive suites and the boardroom, Bruce's office, and of course the Wayne penthouse: a billionaire's private residence to the rest of the world, but because the elevator accessed the satellite Batcave beneath the building as well as the penthouse floor, the security precautions went far beyond that which would protect the typical collection of Picassos, bearer bonds, and diamond cufflinks.

"If I knew then what I know now," Catwoman had purred that first night from an adjacent rooftop… If she'd known _ Batman himself_ had set up that security, she would have found it irresistible. She would have spent every night she was free prodding and poking it, discovering its secrets… And for months after learning his identity, she did just that.

But then, somehow, as time passed – and especially after she moved into the manor and Alfred started hinting for her to redecorate the penthouse – Selina had gradually phased the Wayne building out of Catwoman's exercise routine. She swiftly decided tonight was the night to remedy that.

* * *

The Mad Hatter was the star of this particular show. Catman said he'd told the story twelve times in the bar before moving on to the dining room (Sly insisted it was seventeen times).

_He'd gone to see Eddie at the lair on a, a professional matter _– that detail was always preceded by a shifty glance in Scarecrow's direction… _ And Eddie had a simply frabjous idea so Jervis had gone off to begin carrying it out… _and there he generally glanced at Scarecrow again, just to be safe… "_Just to get supplies and such," _he sometimes added to make it all seem less suspicious.

"He simply HAD to know I was coming right back," Jervis whined prissily. "Had to. I had to run around town a good bit and make a good few stops, for that is the way of things when you have a list. The whole point of making a list is to cross things off it. And I did! I found every item on the list and I crossed it off with my new fountain pen…"

The first few tellings, he would stop there and take out his new pen for everyone to see. But he seemed to lose their attention at that point (he couldn't think why, it was a beautiful pen), so in later tellings, he omitted it.

"Anyway, as the Mockingbird said to the Jabberwock, he simply had to know I was coming back. And when I did…" He paused here, to transition into the tone of voice normally reserved for the campfire when the couple on the deserted lovers' lane find a bloody hook hanging from the car door…

"He was gone," Tom Blake said dryly.

"Yes, he was gone," Jervis said, deflated.

He was equally saddened to see his audience fall away at this anticlimax and to see Sly quietly sliding a beer over to Catman. That's when Jervis decided to move into the dining room.

"Like that scene from Notting Hill," Blake whispered. "Big buildup about seeing a man in a train station that might have been Ringo Starr, might have been Topol from Fiddler on the Roof, but probably wasn't either of them. 'It's not a classic anecdote.'"

Sly chuckled. He seldom made fun of customers; it cut into his tips. (Plus, there was always that one-in-a-hundred chance that if you make fun of the customer, he might kill you.) But Sly had heard Mad Hatter repeat that less-than-classic anecdote seventeen times, and that made him quicker to laugh at Jervis's expense. Plus, Sly was a film buff. And the Iceberg regulars all knew an apt movie quote often brought a stronger drink or an extra bowl of peanuts.

Shortly after Jervis disappeared into the dining room, the Monarch of Menace walked out of the dining room and returned to the bar.

"We are not amused by the little hatter's incessant prattle," he proclaimed royally. "Earlier, we left the bar to hold court in yon dining room since he was prattling in here. Now that he has gone in there, we return to you and would wash the taste of his foolish banter from our mouths with a suitably regal libation."

Sly didn't react to the grandiose speech in any way except to pour the gold-flecked liquor the Monarch of Menace preferred.

"Miss Quinn didn't join you?" Sly noted.

"She has remained behind to hear the story again," he admitted.

"Only Harley," Blake said, lifting his glass.

"And he was GONE!" Jervis exclaimed audibly in a voice normally reserved for the campfire when the bloody hook is found hanging from the car door.

"That's gonna get old real fast," the Monarch growled without a trace of the royal pretension he'd displayed only moments before.

"Freeze's freeze ray is never around when you need it," Catman added.

"I keep thinking of William Shatner singing _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_," a new voice chimed in. Everyone turned… and was surprised to see it was Jonathan Crane who had spoken.

"William Shatner the ham actor?" the Monarch said, repulsed. "Star Trek, TJ Hooker, Tek War, Boston Legal, _ Priceline-dot-com?_"

Another time, those listening might have wondered why the Monarch of Menace was so well versed in any actor's resume, but they were still too stunned by Scarecrow's words to really notice. It was Catman who first found his voice.

"William Shatner," he repeated dully, then became incredulous. "You've listened to him… sing?"

"My business is fear," Scarecrow explained simply. "To know fear you must know all of its faces. You cannot truly say you have looked into the face of fear until you have heard William Shatner sing."

"I can believe that," the Monarch nodded.

"If only we had a soundclip," Crane said, looking wistfully at the dining room. "'_AND SHE'S GONE!'_ echoed over and over in William Shatner's indescribable—"

"Harley has an iPod," the Monarch interrupted.

"This day and age, it shouldn't be too hard to download a soundclip," Blake added hopefully.

"Mr. Cobblepot has broadband is his office," Sly said through his teeth, taking care not to move his lips as he spoke. "I have all the passwords," he added glancing to the office door.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds…" Crane sang softly.

"Lucy in the sky with diamonds…" Blake echoed.

"I'll get Harley's iPod," the Monarch of Menace said swiftly.

* * *

Harvey Dent strode into the Iceberg exuding a confidence he didn't quite feel. He had no qualms about returning to the nightclub he'd frequented so often as Two-Face. He had done it once before. On that occasion, he'd had a few doubts going in, but once he was there and chatting with Oswald, he'd discovered he actually missed the place.

And he didn't have qualms about helping Batman… not exactly. Batman was right, this fundraiser posed a danger. To Selina, to Bruce, to his friends. He knew better than most how nasty particular Rogues could be if their ire was up. More than one might be provoked by "Gotham After Dark: a fundraiser to benefit the Wayne Foundation." Why not put up a neon sign reading TARGET in twenty foot glowing letters? And then in smaller type, just below, offer free laughing gas and brochures on plants' suffrage to the first hundred attendees!

So yes, it was the right thing to do, helping out. Most definitely the right thing to do.

Yet, Harvey felt uneasy. He was… he was acting as a _double agent_. That was the phrase that kept him up half the night tossing and turning in his bed, wondering if he could really go through with his plan. A _double_ agent. He could almost feel Two-Face creeping into his psyche as he thought the word. **_ A double agent, Harv? Why, that sounds like something we would suggest._ **

Still. What choice did he have? When Batman told him about the party being planned, he had included one detail that probably meant nothing to a masked vigilante with nothing better to do at night than swing around Gotham in a cape. But to Harvey Dent, who had spent his political career on the A-list, it was a familiar name – an infamous name: Gladys Ashton-Larraby.

Gladys Ashton-Larraby was planning the Wayne fundraiser. It made the rest of Batman's arguments moot and Harvey tuned them out. Instead he pictured the scene in his mind's eye: Gladys sitting at her writing desk, chewing on the end of a pencil, weighing two ideas for her big fundraiser… either a Gotham Post/Gotham Rogue-themed costume party… or polo. The one was a sure recipe for disaster in 22 different ways. The other wasn't. Let's guess which one she'll choose…

"—the rest is obvious," Batman had said, pulling Harvey back from his daydream.

So he'd agreed to help, like any friend would, and then – then Fate remembered her old disciple, Harvey Dent. She crawled right into the Caped Crusader's mask, into his voice and into his crimefighter's mentality. For Batman declared there were _two_ rogues at large with which Harvey would be most effective.

"Two?" Harvey had asked feeling an icy chill tickle the back of his neck.

"I can suggest a third, if that's a problem," his old nemesis replied. "But I'd rather not split your focus that much. You are a beginner, after all."

Harvey considered this, he saw the logic in it, and he nodded. Once.

"No, I can handle it," he said gamely. "Harvey Dent takes on Gotham rogues two at a time: that's how I like my irony."

He held the guileless campaign smile until he heard who they were, these two villains Batman thought he was so particularly suited to capture:

"The Riddler," Batman began—only to be cut off by Harvey's sharp intake of breath.

"_Eddie?_" he hissed incredulously.

The atmosphere in the room changed, rapidly and dramatically. On hearing his enemy's nickname spoken so familiarly, Batman seemed to… _intensify_, somehow. It felt strangely and chillingly like Hell Month.

"Yes. Nigma," Batman answered at last, biting off the name tersely.

"And the second person you'd like me to target?" Harvey asked coolly.

"Hugo Strange," Batman pronounced.

Harvey smiled again. While he considered Edward Nigma a friend, he detested Hugo Strange. Even Two-Face detested Strange; it was one of the few subjects on which they agreed. So Harvey had nodded, deciding right then he would begin with Hugo and see just how much he liked this whole crimefighting gig. Then he would decide what, if anything, he would do about Eddie.

So he'd devised a plan to get Hugo safely locked up long before the night of the party. It was a good plan, combining Two-Face's criminal cunning with Harvey Dent's political savvy. A masterful plan. He'd conceived it over dinner and spent the evening polishing it. It was only after he'd gone to bed and closed his eyes that the reality of the situation hit him. The plan, while one of his best as far as human insight and shrewd manipulation of interpersonal relationships, did mean becoming, in a sense, _a double agent_.

"Evening, Mr. Dent," Sly called happily from the far end of the bar. And Harvey blinked. He'd become so lost in thought, he had greeted Raven without even realizing it and strode into the bar on autopilot.

He now acknowledged the bartender's greeting with a smiling campaign wave, and Sly waved back with his right hand while reaching for Two-Face's special double malt with his left.

It was the last thing Harvey wanted to drink, but Sly was too far away for Harvey to stop him discreetly. He would have to announce a new order loudly and half the bar would hear. He didn't want to be that conspicuous. It was only a glass of scotch, after all.

* * *

Catwoman purred with satisfaction as she saw the tiny indicator light spring to life, glowing a faint purple: it meant the motion and light sensors were deactivated, and the security hub was tricked into rerecording all of the previous night's footage from every camera in the Wayne Tower. She could now move freely through every part of the building.

It would be a fitting payback, she thought as she advanced into the next level of defenses. A silent, secret, peculiarly feline payback. It seemed like she'd barely seen Bruce since Gladys Ashton-Larraby announced her plan for that idiotic fundraiser. She understood why, of course. Joker was free.

Joker was free. Bruce was Batman. Gladys Ashton-Larraby was giving a rogue party. Joker had to be the priority. Obviously. The madman had to be in Arkham before the night of the party, period (grunt). Otherwise it would be SmileX martinis all around and a probable reprising of the octopus joke (at which point, you might not mind a SmileX martini).

She normally hated when Batman was out battling Joker. She hated it still, but in a different way. When Joker was gunning for Batman, she worried. She didn't like to admit that, even to herself, but she worried. When _Batman_ was gunning for _Joker_ on the other hand, she found herself more irate than fretful.

Each night Batman returned home more frustrated and exhausted than the night before. Each morning Bruce awoke more prickly and irritable.

"It's not like Joker is the only criminal in this city," he growled when he bothered to say anything at all, "and every night I spend on this is another night not spent reducing the number of others still at large on…"

And that's when he trailed off, each time, and looked at her with a faint hint of that old rooftop disapproval in his eye.

"On the night of the party," she finished the thought. "The big looming deadline. Abandon hope all ye who RSVP favorably to Gotham After Dark. I get it, Bruce, but I don't get why you keep glaring at me like I just pocketed your grandmother's rubies every time the subject comes up. This whole idiotic mess was not my idea."

"I know," he grunted. But there was still that undercurrent of… something.

So Selina was annoyed, and Catwoman… Catwoman was getting downright pissed. Not at him, she couldn't quite bring herself to be pissed at him. A faint residue of gratitude still clung to the tips of her whiskers for his welcome home gift. So she would make due with breaking into the Wayne Building. She had just opened a maintenance panel to access the elevator shaft when she felt her arms nearly pulled from their sockets by a powerful backward yank.

She squirmed reflexively in a vicelike torso pin, nearly dislocating her shoulder as she did so. After a split second that felt like a week, the vice eased open and she recognized the looming form behind her a moment before the familiar gravel sounded in her ear.

"What do you think you're doing here?"

* * *

"A double," Harvey noted grimly as Sly set the glass before him. "How nice of you to remember," he added half-heartedly.

"AND SHE'S GONE!" echoed from the dining room.

Harvey raised an eyebrow.

"Don't ask," Sly advised.

Harvey shrugged, and as a few more bars of _Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds_ warbled from the dining room, he picked up his glass and approached the patron he sought.

"Mind if I join you, Hugo?" he asked politely, pointing to the free chair.

The bar was not crowded, and Harvey would have been hard-pressed to explain why he wanted to share Hugo's table when there were plenty of empty booths. Fortunately Hugo didn't ask. He was hard-pressed for company as it was.

"AND SHE'S GONE!" echoed again from the other room, followed by a loud cheer, and then laughter.

"Puerile nonsense," Hugo sneered. It probably was, but Harvey felt the comment seemed like the bitter grumbling of someone excluded from the party.

Harvey made no comment and settled into the empty seat. To achieve his purpose, he knew he had to be seen talking to Hugo, seen and noticed. That meant staying at the table for at least ten minutes. But he saw no need to spend that time listening to an angry, bitter troll spew invective. So Harvey asked if Hugo had seen the Knights' game.

He hadn't. He said he hated sports.

So Harvey asked about movies, and again received only a dismissive grumble about Hollywood swill.

Harvey asked about music, women, fashion, blogging, travel, reality tv, pets, astrology, cars, golf, politics, cooking, poker, the difficulty finding a good barber, and finally, the weather. He failed to find any subject on which Hugo Strange had any interest other than bitching about it. But it filled the requisite ten minutes. At the end of this time, Harvey stood abruptly, grabbed Hugo's collar, pulled him to his feet… and punched him viciously in the mouth.

"Whullbhwm," Hugo burbled through a bloody lip.

"That's not half what you deserve," Harvey snarled, punching Hugo a second time.

The second blow barely landed before the bar erupted into a frenzy of chaotic violence. Just as Harvey knew it would. It was the Iceberg, after all, fights erupted easily. But they never lasted long for the same reason: it was the Iceberg.

A loud shot rang out, commanding immediate attention. There was a familiar sweeeeeng as the bullet ricocheted off the chandelier and everyone froze in place. A furious Oswald Cobblepot lowered his umbrella. He pointed its smoking barrel at his customers, making a slow pass from left to right, then from right to left. Everyone understood the unspoken question, but after another silent, dramatic pass left to right, then right to left, Oswald asked it aloud.

"Well," he sniffed, "whose debenture to this establishment is about to expand to include costs incurred in this present confliction? Or, to translate into your proletarian vernacular, 'who started it?'"

The question was typically met with silent shuffling of feet followed by muted grumbling and a few furtive attempts to point to Killer Croc when Croc wasn't looking. So Oswald was surprised when Harvey Dent cleared his throat forcefully.

"Oh, I'll pay the bill," Harvey said reasonably. Then he glared hatefully at Hugo. "Was well worth it. Cheap at twice the price. I'd do it again. Do you know what that slimy son of a bitch was up to? He has a roofie in his pocket. Bragging about it! And he asked when Roxy usually comes in."

Hugo got two syllables into a sputtered denial before Sly charged forward, fists flailing. No one held him back. They didn't especially like Hugo, and they all knew there would be retribution for touching Oswald's best bartender. Two Ghost Dragons eventually stepped forward and pulled him off the bloody, whimpering Hugo Strange… but that didn't improve Hugo's situation. Instead of looking into Sly's rapidly approaching fist, he found himself staring into the barrel of Oswald's umbrella.

Oswald did not approve of anyone antagonizing Sly, that went without saying. But were he inclined to overlook that transgression-kwak, there was still the matter of kwa-kwa-kwa-Roxy. As delicate a bird as ever chose to plume her feathers in his unworthy-kwak-establishment.

He told Raven to summon the police—an unprecedented development—and announced that he would not extend the usual house protection over those who incur various disturbing the peace charges on Iceberg grounds. Everyone watched in stunned fascination as Officers Denusky and Peroni arrived and Oswald waddled hurriedly to the door to meet them.

"Here, Officers, right here, a hooligan he is, a depraved, degenerate hooligan!" was how it began, escalating into "Take him away, away I say, KWAK!" as Hugo Strange was handcuffed and climaxing in a vehement "And I shall sue you for damages!" shouted at the closed door a full minute after Hugo had been carted away.

* * *

"What do you think you're doing here?" Batman had graveled, releasing her from the brutal torso hold.

"The usual," she purred, turning to look into his eyes—which were hidden behind night lenses (woof).

"No games, Catwoman. Not here, not tonight. Get out of here, now. It's not safe."

"I take it we're not alone," she guessed, noting the form of address.

"We might not be," he said curtly.

There were no other words, no further explanations, but Catwoman didn't need them. The intensity of his demeanor spoke the word he didn't: _Joker_.

* * *

After the excitement in the bar had died down, the Iceberg resumed business as usual. Poison Ivy came in and ordered a cosmopolitan on a cloth napkin… Harley and the Monarch of Menace disappeared into Oswald's office with a small sack of gems and emerged a few minutes later with a large stack of hundreds and a larger smile… Ventriloquist turned the pages of a ROOMS TO GO catalog so Scarface could pick out furniture for a new hideout… And in the dining room, Mad Hatter was showing the Zagat guide to a circle of groupies, pointing out each business the Riddler had circled in his last moments before disappearing. He enthralled them with details of his visit to the Fountain Pen Hospital, the Green Onion, Habu Textiles and Fat Beat.

"So I collected all my parcels," he said, revving up for the big climax, "the large bag and the small, the green one with the handle, and the red one tied with string. I got back to his place, and…"

"And she's GONE!" sounded from under the table, while Scarecrow and Catman burst into fits of laughter.

"Screw you guys," Jervis pouted, stomping out of the dining room. He stomped all the way to the bar, where Sly was polishing a glass as casually as ever. His hand was a little sore from repeatedly pounding into Hugo Strange's face, but other than that, he seemed his usual self.

"Feruminous banderly… frumillo… snatcherly…" he broke off, sighed, and looked up at Sly. "Bastards," he said simply.

Sly looked innocent and mixed him a Derby Fizz without being asked. Ivy looked at him sideways, as if deciding whether to acknowledge his existence or not.

"Jealousy is natural," she pronounced finally, evidently deciding in Jervis's favor. "Mosses trapped under dark and dismal rock cannot help but envy the mighty oaks which bask in the sunlight. So it is with we who enjoy a prominent—and respectful—place in the public eye."

Jervis squinted at her.

"I've as healthy a respect for nonsense as the next man, Pamela. But just now it's not the stuff to make me feel better."

She shrugged as if she'd done more than enough already and wasn't about to explain herself. Oswald's door opened and he looked at Sly, looked at Jervis, nodded curtly, and went back inside.

"Mr. Cobblepot would like a word with you," Sly said discreetly.

* * *

Catwoman marched furiously through the Wayne Tower's main "security closet," unceremoniously ripping her delicate overrides out of the various systems and cursing obscenely about idiotic crimefighters and their even more idiotic sidekicks!

Evidently, once upon a time Joker had given his good pal "Brucie" a calling card with a contact number and password. Robin – no not Robin – TIM! Tim's brilliant plan for smoking out Joker was apparently to dig out this card, call the number, dutifully recite the magic phrase "blind bats bite blowfish" and give the operator the all important message to relay to Joker without delay: "Selina has two tickets to see Carlos Mencia at Menschrucker's Comedy House, and Bruce can't go because of work. Would you like to take somebody and go?"

To anyone else, that message meant there were two tickets up for grabs, call if you want 'em. That's undoubtedly what Tim thought. But Batman knew better. Batman understood Joker's mindset. To the Joker, that message wasn't a free pair of concert tickets, it was a cue to blow up Wayne Enterprises, removing the impediment so his good pal Brucie could take Selina to the concert. Carlos Mencia at Menschrucker's, it doesn't get much more romantic than that, HAHAHAHAAAAAAAA!

Even before the clue, a helium balloon marked with the Wayne logo and filled with some kind of SmileX variant, arrived at police headquarters, Batman was expecting trouble. He hadn't told Selina, since it was likely his work, and hence the Wayne Building and not the manor that would be targeted. When his hidden alarms tripped indicating the security system had been compromised, he was almost relieved. The trap had worked, maybe not as Tim intended it, but it worked: Joker was exposed. He was somewhere in the Wayne Building and – there – at last, a hazy purple movement tampering with the elevator…

Catwoman refused to apologize. She was doing what she did. And she had never EVER apologized for what she was. She was a thief. She was a catburglar, check out the ears. She was a damn good catburglar. And tonight, she chose to utilize her skills breaking into this building. How was she to know all her deliciously brilliant overrides of the various layers of security were effectively opening the door for Joker to get in undetected?

Now – she hissed as her claws sliced the wire connecting the last override to its relay – now they would have real security tapes of anything that happened in the building from this point on. But there was no way to tell if Joker had already gotten in.

Catwoman refused to apologize. Refused to. Cats did not. Anybody who didn't understand what a cat really was – or what Catwoman really was – could go suck a SmileX balloon for all she cared, and if—

She felt a tap.

A firm but polite tap.

On her right shoulder, which still hurt like hell from the way Batman had yanked it a few minutes before.

She turned slowly to the side, a sick premonition growing as her glance reached her shoulder… And there it was, a white-gloved hand extending from a purple sleeve.

"Joker," she said flatly.

* * *

Jervis Tetch had been a regular at the Iceberg Lounge since it opened. While he occasionally did a little business through Penguin's underground operations, he had never been formally summoned into Oswald's office this way. He went in mouthing "curiouser and curiouser." He was curious walking back to the office, he was curious when Oswald offered him the deep comfortable client chair beside the desk, he was curious when the door opened and Raven herself brought him a fresh Derby Fizz – all the while the words "curiouser and curiouser" echoed in his brain – but when the moment came to speak, all Jervis could think to say was "Well isn't this nice, Oswald. We haven't had a chat for ever so long."

"Yes, kwak," was the less-than-matey reply.

"What, er, that is to say, what can I do for you?"

Oswald Cobblepot merely chewed the tip of his cigarette holder while he studied Jervis intently.

"Have you seen it?" he asked finally.

"Seen what?" Jervis asked back.

"That's a 'no,'" Oswald observed.

"When I use a word, it means just what I choose it to mean, neither more nor less," Jervis replied, feeling much more relaxed now that he had a Humpty Dumpty quote to meet the situation.

"The Post," Oswald said scornfully. "You don't know? You're the evil genius in our midst all this while that we've all written off as a joke."

Jervis swallowed. He did not like the sound of this.

"M-m-m-me?" he stammered.

Oswald tossed a folded newspaper into his lap.

"Last page. It's not a flattering picture, I'll grant you. You seem to have a number of human skulls and, well, not much clothing. But the new writer seems to be a fan of yours. Well, not a 'fan' exactly, but she's warning all of Gotham how they've underestimated you. Says no one realizes how dangerous and insane you are."

"I object!" Jervis said, jumping to his feet, right arm outstretched as if he were either hailing Oswald a cab, or saluting him as Oberführer.

"Do sit down, Jervis. _I'm_ not saying you're insane and dangerous. I'm trying to help you."

"Why," Jervis asked with a beady glare.

Oswald sighed and pointed to the bar.

"Because if a newspaper read by the people in that room says you're a dangerous menace who poses a threat to us all, you'd better in fact _be_ a dangerous menace who poses a threat to us all."

"But I don't want to go among mad people," Jervis squeaked miserably.

Oswald shook his head sadly.

"You recall that chandelier Jonathan was clinging to a while ago, while the venom penguins circled underneath like sharks?"

Jervis nodded.

"We know it can support 114 pounds for an indefinite period," Oswald informed him. "Perhaps you should practice your climbing skills."

Jervis squeaked.

"That is to say, Jonathan 'lucked out,' in a manner of speaking, in that he was essentially tossed up there by a fear-crazed Ghost Dragon. You can't count on that sort of thing. You would do well to prepare in advance."

Jervis fainted.

* * *

"Selina, my dear," Joker oozed, smiling widely. "I see you had the same delightful idea as moi! We must free Brucie from this millstone of 'work' hanging around his neck."

Catwoman put on her best humoring Joker smile.

"And how do you figure we're going to do that, Jack?"

"HAHAHAHAHAAAAA! Glad you asked," he enthused, putting his arm around her. This caused Catwoman's neck to snap around, to see his hand resting on her other shoulder. She fought down the revulsion as he steered her in this way, guiding her to a service elevator off the parking garage. He pressed the button, and Selina's stomach lurched as the door opened to reveal the ten-foot chamber had been stacked high with pressurized canisters.

"SmileX?" she asked, weak-kneed.

"Ha-ha-hell no," he answered sternly. "I'd hate to start a fire with SmileX, it would just burn up! Leaving no happy smiles behind. What are you thinking, Puddy-tat?"

"I see," Selina answered quietly. "So, this stuff would be?"

"Frown-Ex," Joker said, as if it were obvious. "Little something I whipped up a few years ago on a rainy Sunday. Bit of a dud. Now I can finally put it to good use. And all thanks to Brucie. That man, does he ever stop giving?"

Catwoman bit her lip. While superficially Batman was right that "nothing about Joker is funny," there was something about the mad clown's wild enthusiasm for Bruce Wayne that was nothing short of hilarious. Joker was rummaging in his pocket, and pulled out a long purple pistol. He pointed it at Catwoman.

"Do the honors?" he offered.

Having a fairly good idea what was going to happen in the next ten seconds, Selina figured the gun was better in her hands than Joker's, so she took it. She examined the barrel; it looked like one of those trick cigarette lighters. And sure enough Joker was holding up a length of wick.

She smiled.

"So the idea is, I light this, it burns to there, ignites the gas, big boom?"

"HAHAHAHA! Right-ho, and Brucie is free to-ULGRLP"

The last sound was not a word but an involuntary expelling of breath (and teeth) as Batman's boot swung into Joker's stomach and pushed it upward towards his windpipe. Catwoman merely stood back as the swing completed, bouncing Joker against the wall, and after a (rather showy) "dismount" from the Batline, the pummeling began in earnest.

Catwoman knew she should leave. Joker had assumed she was there to blow up the building, just as he was. He had assumed she was still, at heart, one of them, on their side. If that were the case, the logical thing to do when Batman showed up was to scat. But something made her stay, something about the way Joker was ranting. Between jabs, hooks, uppercuts and hammer punches, the Joker – deadliest psychopath in the history of Gotham – was ranting about having to pick out a hat for her wedding. There was more to the crazed ranting: he couldn't be taken to Arkham right now, HAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA! It simply wasn't a good time, there was this party HAHAHAAAAA! Brucie, you see. It was going to be HAHHAHAHAHAAAAA the Best! Joke! Ever!

But in amidst all the Haha-Brucie-Best-Joke-Evering, Joker said he had to pick out a hat – and that he expected to give the bride away – and it better be sooner and not later ,if you know what I mean, because HAHAHA the lemmings in this town may not be Rhodes Scholars but they can count to ten.

* * *

The dream began ominously. Jervis hung in midair, suspended from the waist in an icy stalactite, but with a furry Russian hat pulled over Mr. Freeze's dome and holding Catman and Scarecrow's skulls balanced precariously in his free hand. Oswald stood beneath, tallying up the charges for all the damage to his bar, and William Shatner stood beside him, singing into a fountain pen. Suddenly, the Riddler ran in and said he had it all worked out: henchmen spaced around the battlefield with parabolic transmitters, bombarding Freeze with a medley of boy band hits.

In response, Shatner hit a high note, shattering the stalactite, and Jervis fell. He passed right through the floor into a dark, endless, rabbit hole. From far above he heard Riddler crying, "Take that Fries, I've got unlimited calling after seven and a Napster membership, and I'm not afraid to use it!"

Jervis awoke in a cold sweat. His dread was hardly eased by the fact that Jonathan Crane was standing over him, holding his hat.

"There there," Crane soothed like an Arkham orderly. "You had quite a scare, I fear. Tell us all about it."

* * *

…to be continued…


	7. No Choice

_Chapter 7: No choice_

* * *

There was one subject, and one subject alone, on which every villain and crimefighter in Gotham agreed: a laughing fit after a Joker encounter is cause for concern. No matter how casual and frivolous the meeting may have seemed at the time, if you found yourself chortling later, you got yourself to a hospital for a blood test. And if your neuroendocrine levels were up, immunoglobulin was activated, or respiration was irregular, then you swallowed your pride and swallowed whatever substance Batman had given that hospital as the latest antidote for the latest Joker toxin.

Even Selina, if she had found herself laughing for no reason after, say, a night at the Iceberg when Joker had been present, would have taken the necessary precautions. But she was not laughing _for no reason_. She was laughing – and she tried to explain this to Bruce as he dragged her out of bed intent on getting her down to the Batcave for treatment – she tried to explain – ahem, _tried_ to explain that she was laughing for a damn good reason: Joker—

That was as far as she got before it started up again. Laughter. But not SmileX laughter; _funny_ laughter. Laughter at a perfectly ludicrous realization after an especially tense week. By the time she could breathe, Bruce had her wrapped in his kimono and halfway down the manor stairs. She calmed herself and tried again: Joker and—

She giggled anew, and by the time she caught her breath again, they were in the study and Bruce was setting her down in order to open the grandfather clock.

"Really, it's okay," she managed, realizing that the way to maintain her composure was to assure him without trying to explain what was so funny. Trying to explain the thought that set her off would only get her going again.

"Come on," he growled as the passageway opened. "It seems like you're able to walk now."

He was obviously still determined to subject her to a battery of tests. Selina knew it was pointless to object, so she followed but she did try once more to explain once they'd reached the medilab. She got as far as "Seriously, I'm fine," when she was stopped by the look in his eye. He seemed… shaken. And she could imagine why.

After capturing Joker at the Wayne Tower, they'd split up: he to take the madman to Arkham, she to do whatever it was she did on those "prowls" of hers, which he still wasn't quite clear on. She'd beaten him home, as always. After depositing Joker at Arkham, he'd returned to the city and patrolled for another three hours or so. The logs took twenty minutes, changing another ten, so it was nearly five o'clock by the time Bruce reached the bedroom door. So he wasn't at all surprised that she'd beaten him home. He was surprised that she was still awake.

"Couldn't sleep?" he'd asked, untying the belt of his kimono.

"No, it was a choice," she answered, pulling at the belt like a kitten. "It seems like we haven't had much contact beyond 'Morning Handsome-Grunt' since this whole party thing was announced. So I figured I'd stay up and, I don't know, purr in your ear or something when you got home."

He sank into the bed, muttering wearily about having to revive a flawed protocol because of more serious flaws in the circumstances… Then he closed his eyes, and rubbed temples.

Selina was about to observe that he'd been pushing himself too hard, but it seemed like he was already falling asleep. So she postponed the chitchat, turned off the light, and settled into her favorite spot under his arm. She placed her hand on his chest, just over the scar of an ancient cat-scratch, and realized what it was about the night's events that had her so unsettled. It was a throwback to what their relationship had been for so many years: days or weeks of fruitless anticipation, hoping and near misses – then a sudden, unexpected tussle of unbelievable intensity. A few short minutes, sometimes, to last… who knew? A week, a month, maybe more…

And now? Now Joker ranted about "giving the bride away." Gladys Ashton-Larraby dropped hints to the society gossip columns. Superman found some way, once a month or so, to remind them both that…

And that's when she started laughing.

Superman.

Joker, Superman, and Gladys Ashton-Larraby.

Bruce woke, concerned, and called her name sharply, but she couldn't squelch the laughter long enough to answer coherently.

Joker, Superman and Gladys Ashton-Larraby. Joker, Superman, and Gladys Ashton-Larraby all had opinions about her marital status? Joker, Superman, and Gladys Ashton-Larraby all had opinions about her uterus! Joker, Superman, and Gladys Ashton-Larraby! That was just _funny_.

* * *

Insane and dangerous. Jervis Tetch felt he'd never been in quite so much peril since this woman at a tabloid newspaper declared him insane and dangerous.

Before, Jonathan Crane – who everyone knew was _truly_ a psychotic menace of epic proportions – was taking too much of an interest in Jervis's private affairs. _Then_ he assumed that mousy little Jervis was being victimized by Edward Nigma, intellectual bully. But _now_, now Nigma was missing and this lunatic reporter was telling everyone that he, Jervis Tetch, lovable Jervis Tetch, was a dangerous lunatic. Now there was no TELLING what Scarecrow might be thinking.

On the one hand, it could have been mere kindness. Anyone who had passed out at the Iceberg knew that waking up in that backroom with a stuffed emperor penguin wedged into an umbrella stand wasn't the pleasantest experience. Loosening his tie, taking off his hat, and patting his forehead with a damp towel _could_ have been mere kindness – except that Jonathan Crane was a psychotic menace and not exactly known for his kindness.

And since then, he'd been hanging about with this air of helpful concern that made Jervis's skin crawl.

Needing SOMETHING to keep Crane occupied, Jervis was doing his best to keep him distracted with the mystery of the moment: _ The Strange Disappearance of Edward Nigma. _Neither of them were well-suited to the task, being more inclined to fray and frazzle the detective mind rather than operate one. But they had the Zagat Guide, and they knew Eddie. They knew his happy knack for leaving clues, even when he didn't mean to. So they read the Zagat guide, poring over the ratings and descriptions of each shop Eddie had circled "in his final moments" (as Jervis had taken to referring to it, with increasingly melodramatic inflection).

"The Fountain Pen Hospital," Jervis read aloud from the guide. "Proponents proclaim it's 'pen central' at this 'high-quality' 'old Gotham' financial district shop."

"What's with the air-quotes?" Crane interrupted.

"Pardon?" Jervis asked, looking up.

"You keep twitching your fingers on certain words, making those air quotes."

"I am simply being precise, Jonathan," he explained with a prissy dignity, pointing to the book. "They take surveys from people who shop at these places and string the best quotes together to make a descriptive paragraph."

Jonathan sighed.

"No wonder Nigma subscribes to it. What a frightful waste of time."

"May I continue?" Jervis asked, his eyebrows arching to produce an almost mask-like effect of curious anticipation.

Crane nodded. And Jervis scanned the page, moving his lips as he read, until he found his place again.

"Old Gotham financial district shop," he repeated. "'With a mind-boggling selection that ranges from everyday to rarefied vintage models to calligraphy pens with 14-karat gold nibs…' Oh, this is nice, 'As well as excellent repair service – if it writes or used to, they can fix it.' I must say, that is handy. How I hate throwing away pens. Do you know—"

Crane cleared his throat and glared, and Jervis decided not to pursue that conversation after all.

"Yes well," he sad sadly. "That seems to be it. '…The incredibly knowledgeable staff also leaves _an indelible impression_."

"Indelible impression? Is that a pun?" Crane groaned.

"Presumably. Not mine. Theirs," Jervis said, pointing again to the page.

"Hm," Scarecrow murmured disapprovingly. "Mind-boggling is obviously significant," he said. "Seeing as you were involved."

Jervis bit his lip. That angle had not occurred to him. He was too preoccupied with a new danger that he only just saw as he was reading, a danger that seemed to rise from the words like a sleeping dragon: the very nature of the shop was the PENS. And the greatest riddle of all time, posed by the original Mad Hatter was: How is a raven _like a writing desk? _Why he and Eddie had argued about it many times. And now virtually Eddie's last act before disappearing into the looking glass was to send him to a place called the Fountain Pen Hospital.

Ordinarily Jervis would have been delighted at this titillating notion. It was certainly a deliciously clever Mad Hatter scheme that Riddler was designing for him – but if Jonathan were to see this particular angle about the raven and the writing desk, the consequences for Jervis could be gruesome. How is a raven like a writing desk? Or possibly how is_ R_aven like a writing desk? Raven was Oswald's comely hostess, a pretty young woman whose scream when a spider appeared on her podium had piqued Jonathan's interest.

Jervis hoped Jonathan didn't know his Alice in Wonderland that well, for if he did make the connection and thought Raven was involved in his scheme… It was true that 'mind-boggling' must certainly be a Mad Hatter reference, and Jervis did not want Jonathan to start thinking Eddie's plan - which he was meant to think was Jervis's plan - might involve his boggling lovely Raven's mind!

"Well I think that's it for the Fountain Pens," he said abruptly. "Let's keep all that under our hats as we move on to the next one, shall we?" Then he clapped his hands enthusiastically and turning the guide to Habu Textiles…

* * *

The man with thinning hair and a loud green shirt emblazoned with bright yellow question marks took his usual seat at Tavern on the Green. Other than wedding receptions and Sunday brunches, true Gothamites did not go to Tavern on the Green. During the week, the famous restaurant in the heart of Robinson Park was patronized almost exclusively by tourists who came in by the busload. As such, Eddie found he was far more invisible here, dressed in this way, than he was living that miserable hermit's existence in which he'd spent his first days of self-imposed exile.

At first, he'd checked into a moderately priced bed-and-breakfast patronized by low-key European visitors. He never left the building, never even ventured into the communal dining room for the continental breakfast included with his room. He had all of his food delivered through the hotel's strange convoluted practice: they provided local takeout menus that could be ordered through, and delivered by, the hotel room service. It reminded him of sucking up to Hugo Strange at Arkham when Strange had access to takeout pizza and barbecue through a mercenary guard named Saul Vics. That realization ruined Eddie's appetite, and sitting in the room with no diversions but the Gideon's Bible and the television was driving him stark raving mad. He was laying low to stay OUT of Arkham until the party, but if he spent one more hour watching daytime television, his great brain might be fit for nothing other than Arkham.

So he'd ventured out – and was stopped dead in his tracks in the lobby by a family of four all wearing "I heart Gotham City" t-shirts, each and every one emblazoned with a large bat-emblem. He realized there were better ways to hide than subsisting on delivered pizza, Szechuan, and sushi, watching Jerry Springer, and never seeing the light of day. He could hide in plain sight – as a tourist – whom Gothamites looked at constantly and never really _saw_.

So he'd moved from the pleasant low-key bed-and-breakfast to the crassest tourist hotel in Times Square. He bought the loud, green Riddler shirt he was wearing at the giftshop in their lobby, and each day he attached himself to one of the bus tours. He'd been to the top of the Empire building and Rockefeller Center a dozen times now. He'd taken the CNN tour at Time-Warner and seen the show at Radio City six times each. He'd taken two river cruises around Gotham. He'd been to the Robinson Park Zoo, Strawberry Fields and the Gotham Museum; he'd seen Les Miserables, Mamma Mia and The Lion King. When his fellow bus-people asked where he was from, he extolled the pleasures of Steubenville, Ohio. When they asked what he did for a living, he said he was a regional rep for a new candy called BALI ADDER MINT. They wandered off when he began explaining how he went around from grocery store to grocery store, negotiating prominent shelf placement for the BALI ADDER MINT.

It had all gone splendidly. Each day he was deposited at Tavern on the Green for lunch, and he was amusing himself working through the permutations of their three-course menu. He left, as always, saying how he hoped the concierge could get him a ticket for Phantom of the Opera tonight— when he was yanked off the sidewalk by a— green— cloying— leafy— AAAHHHH!

* * *

It took the sting of Bruce taking a blood sample to pierce through the layers of amusement and bursting tension, so Selina could finally, rationally, explain what sparked her laughing fit:

"Joker, Superman, and Gladys Ashton-Larraby," she recited as Bruce checked her pupils and then her lips. "Joker, Superman, and Gladys Ashton-Larraby. Tell me that's not funny."

"Maybe from where you sit," he growled, swabbing her forearm with disinfectant one last time before applying a Band-Aid.

"If you laugh at it here, just this once, while it's just us, I'll never tell," she said with a naughty grin,

He paused, considering it. Selina focused all her thoughts on the side of his lip, and just when she was convinced it was ready to twitch, he said, "I will never, in a thousand years, be able to predict what you'll find funny. I would have thought if anything would set off the hissing and scratching—"

"Any one of them on their own, yeah sure, I'd be sharpening my claws now. But _all three_, Bruce c'mon. There's a critical mass of ludicrous inanity. 'Superman. Joker. And Gladys Ashton-Larraby.' I can't take that seriously enough to get pissed, can you?"

His eyes softened a bit, but his expression didn't change.

"Still no twitch?" Selina prodded with a seductive trill.

"Do you have any idea the nightmare scenarios that ran through my head coming down the stairs just now? If you'd been exposed to SmileX back at the tower and I didn't notice. I made an extra run through the park after finishing patrol. I took twenty minutes on the logs, and all the while you could've been… And what was it, an accidental exposure meant for me, or intentional – what possible Joker rationale could there be for striking at you that way? Was it a time-release drug, or did it need a catalyst to activate—"

There were more speculations to come, but Selina silenced them with a slow, insistent kiss.

"I'm fine," she reassured him. "It was just a very, very tense week." She paused to take a very deep breath and then let it out. "And once the bubble popped, it popped."

She touched the side of his lip.

"Wouldn't kill you to let it out now and then either. You've been a lot tenser than I have the last 7 days."

He nodded reluctantly.

"I used to make better choices where Joker is concerned. In the early days, it was like it's been this past week: I'd unearth every pebble trying to find him, and wind up running on empty by the time the confrontation actually occurred. So, over time, I learned it was in my best interests to let him make the next move. It's hard. You can only _hope_ that the move won't involve killing an entire family because they have a needlepoint welcome mat… Anyway, I know better than to do what I've been doing. But with this party looming – like you said, it's a deadline. I had no choice."

"And you got him," Selina pronounced, satisfied. "So…" She pointed, insistently, at the corner of his lip.

"It took longer than it should have. Time that could have been spent—"

"Going after every other crook in the city? Bruce please. Nightwing, Robin, Batgirl, Huntress, and Pheromones are all on the case, aren't they?"

"Yes," he admitted. "So is Harvey. He's got Hugo Strange out of the picture. And Nightwing captured Killer Croc."

Selina smirked.

"Dick may not fully comprehend the priorities of this mission," she observed.

"Obviously he wouldn't pass up a chance to apprehend Croc," Bruce graveled.

"I'm sure. I just don't think he was much of a threat as far as the glitzy society fundraiser is concerned," Selina demurred. Then her eyes flickered with a determined feline glint, and she focused all her attention on that stubborn corner of the bat-lip as she said "Besides, I never have any trouble with Waylon since I showed him a picture of his head photoshopped onto a green crocodile Kelly bag."

She followed this with the naughtiest grin seen since the Winthrop Rubies, and was rewarded, after an additional four seconds of stone-faced silence, with the coveted lip-twitch.

* * *

The Mad Hatter was not the only rogue who had noticed the Riddler's disappearance. He and Scarecrow were not the only rogues who wondered what could have happened to him. Poison Ivy had also noticed when Nigma vanished so mysteriously – indeed, she noticed almost as soon as Jervis discovered it, and long before he'd gone shooting his mouth all over the Iceberg about it. She didn't care enough to go looking for him, but she did miss having someone to talk to. Why, she hadn't even told him about her scrapbook.

So Ivy had instructed her plants to keep watch for him and report back. When he was spotted coming into the park, an alert zinnia reported back to her and she dispatched two of her most efficient minions, a flytrap and a creepervine, to bring him to her.

She waited, patiently, for him to wake, for it seemed the creeper – used to Batman, who wore a protective cowl – had let Nigma's head bounce on the stairs as they descended into her lair.

She waited patiently for as long as she could, then she had the creeper fetch some water and throw it in his face. That brought him around much faster and she was sorry she didn't think of it sooner.

She explained, briefly, that the creeper was inexperienced with uncowled, unhelmeted heads, and that she'd meant no harm. Nigma merely glared at her as he rubbed the throbbing soreness that ran from the back of his neck up to his left ear. It was a look she knew well, like he wanted to tell her off but knew he wouldn't get far before the pheromones kicked in. He said he "accepted her apology", although he said it the way you told Dr. Bartholomew that you were completely rehabilitated and sure you could become a productive member of society.

Ivy had _not_ 'apologized', and would have said so – but she felt they were getting off to a very bad start, and she would never get any answers if they didn't get past the preliminaries. So she let it go – for now.

For his part, Eddie was… uneasy. It wasn't that he'd been kidnapped and manhandled by foliage. That had happened before and it would happen again. It went with life in Gotham. What concerned him was Ivy herself. The more she talked, the more believable her story seemed. She really hadn't meant for the plants to rough him up. She wanted to talk.

She'd only been calling him first thing in the morning for _weeks_ before he'd disappeared. It made sense. She wanted to talk – and talk and talk and talk – about herself, about her press. It was pure Ivy. It was totally believable.

She noticed when he disappeared – also believable, since she was calling him every day.

She wondered what had happened to him – also believable. It wasn't any great concern for his welfare, she missed her audience. She was a needy, lonely wreck, and she wanted to talk and there was nobody but the flowerbeds to listen to her.

Yes, it all made sense. So when her plants found him (Why oh why didn't he anticipate that danger, Tavern on the Green was in the heart of Robinson Park – but how was he to know Ivy was looking for him?), she had them bring him to her.

And now, now she had him. She wanted to know WHY he'd gone. What did he know that they didn't?

And wasn't that a loaded question.

* * *

"Habu Textiles," Jervis read. "For an amazing selection of wonderful Japanese yarns and fabrics you will find nowhere else (made from such substances as pineapple, bamboo, stainless-steel-and-silk combo) artists and fashionistas come to this Chelsea textile specialist which also houses a weaving studio and gallery; the 'minimalist' space displays one-of-a-kind hand-dyed pieces for garments or home furnishings that are also _fabu_ as artworks in their own right."

"Fabu?" Jonathan Crane asked archly.

Jervis merely shrugged and pointed again to the Zagat guide as if to say it wasn't his fault.

"Not even a good anagram," Crane observed.

Again Jervis shrugged.

Jonathan rubbed his chin thoughtfully… 'Minimalist' made him think of all the shrinking Alice did… Eat Me. Drink Me. Mushrooms… He glanced warily at the table where Jervis had fixed them a snack a few hours before…

Then he looked suspiciously at Jervis.

…there were little cakes too.

* * *

Eddie was no fool. Poison Ivy had questions. If he didn't give her a good answer freely, there would be wisps of leafy jungle scents tickling his nostrils and he would be _compelled_ to give her a better one. He'd also be attending the Gotham After Dark party not as the One True Riddler, but as "Edward the silly man-thing who fetches Poison Ivy champagne." So he explained (with reasonable accuracy) about the party: Gotham After Dark, to benefit the Wayne Foundation. Selina's name was mentioned. More than one socialite "picking out a hat." It was just the sort of thing that might stir up the vigilantes, so he decided to lay low for a while – and that's when Jervis the fusspot showed up at his door.

"Well Pammy, I don't have to tell you," he concluded with a worldly air. "You don't tell Jervis Tetch secrets."

"No," she agreed, although she seemed disappointed. "I imagine if anyone would be taking an interest in _Wayne and Selina _it would be him." She sniffed dismissively, thinking of her last, disastrous effort greening Bruce Wayne and the humiliation of being given a Whitman Sampler by the man who gave Selina diamond cat-pins of his own free will. "'Picking out a hat,' indeed," she added contemptuously.

Eddie smiled agreeably. He had downplayed the appeal of the party as a target in itself. He'd stressed only that it was the kind of thing crimefighters (dim-witted, non-vegetable, male crimefighters) would think was the sort of event villains would be lining up to attack. He'd been so focused driving home that point, he didn't realize the trail of breadcrumbs he'd left to another topic.

"What secrets," Ivy asked suddenly.

"Secrets? What secrets?" Eddie asked sharply, his eyes darting around like a bird.

"You said you disappeared, essentially, because Jervis was hanging around, presumably interested in this picking out a hat angle (such a silly man), and 'you don't confide your secrets in Jervis Tetch.' Which I agree with, entirely. So Edward, what I'm asking is, _what_ is the secret? What is it you know that none of us do, and what does it have to do with this Wayne shindig that—Oh." Her eyes widened and she stopped midsentence. "Oh my," she repeated with a coy smile.

Eddie had gone deathly pale. Ivy had guessed. Wayne was dead. Selina was dead. Selina – poor Selina – what would they do to her? And all because of him! They'd burn down Wayne Manor, they'd cut Bruce to ribbons and feed him to Joker's hyenas, but what would they do to her?

"Picking out a hat indeed," Ivy drawled. "Is that what they're calling it these days."

"Come again?" Eddie squeaked.

"Oh Edward, you can be such a man."

"Huh?"

"Going to these ridiculous lengths and all to protect your little kitty friend's heh _reputation_ – as if she can't do that perfectly well herself."

"Uhhhh," Eddie stammered, hoping for some clue what Ivy was getting at.

"The stamen pollinates the pistil, Edward, a seed is produced and a new offspring sprouts forth. It is nature's way. Only a man would attempt to create drama from something so simple."

Eddie swallowed as the awful truth sank in. Ivy had not guessed _the truth_. She had guessed something else entirely. And whatever Selina – or god forbid, Bruce – might have done to him if he had been responsible for Batman's secret getting out was absolutely nothing compared to what might happen now if Bruce – or god forbid, Selina – learned he was responsible for this.

* * *

Jervis was in a panic, an absolute panic. He never expected any danger in _Fat Beat_, a store which sold _vinyl records._ They sold music CDs and vinyl records. It had nothing to do with Tweedledum and Tweedledee! The store sold RECORDS.

But Jonathan! Jonathan thought he remembered a scene from Lewis Carroll with the Tweedles, where Alice "dressed them up in armor so they could _beat_ each other _with bats_." - And on that absurd crumb of misinformed logic, Jonathan thought that was the Eddie clue and he was searching through Jervis's bookcase, looking for the passage he thought he remembered.

He remembered it WRONG. Jervis knew the nursery rhyme by heart, of course, and he knew what Jonathan would eventually find (if he was so unlucky that Scarecrow did actually find the scene he was looking for). It would read:

_Tweedledum and Tweedledee  
Agreed to have a battle;  
For Tweedledum said Tweedledee  
Had spoiled his nice new rattle.  
Just then flew down **a monstrous crow,**  
As black as a tar-barrel;  
Which **frightened both the heroes** so,  
They quite forgot their quarrel._

A monstrous crow frightening the heroes. Jervis felt that once Jonathan found that poem and saw those phrases, life as he had known it, was over.

* * *

As far as Poison Ivy was concerned, there were exactly two kinds of newspapers in the world: the ones that slaughtered trees day after day in order to have a paper surface on which to vomit their self-important headlines… and the ones that said nice things about her.

Since she had discovered her new, flattering and respectful coverage in the Gotham Post, she hadn't wanted to support the murder of any more trees by purchasing the Times. But it seemed like this party Eddie was so worked up about – and the secret it contained – was worth investigating. So she went down to the newspaper's office – which was in Times Square, the most frightfully inorganic part of the City, which left her in a terrible mood. She located this Hermoine person, who turned out to be a man. That made everything much simpler. A few whiffs of her special lure and he was more than happy to leave the office and walk with her back to the park. She could concentrate so much better there, with all her beloved plants clustered around to support her.

He confirmed all Eddie had said about the party and a good deal of what wasn't said but which Ivy had surmised. This "Hermoine" had it straight from Bruce's closest friend in society, a Mrs. Ashton-Larraby, the very first person in which the happy couple had confided their special news…

Ivy sent Martin-Hermoine-whatever-he-called-himself (silly men and their cries for attention) on his way, and tried to decide exactly how she felt about this development.

Catty was knocked up.

Well now. There were those who considered Catwoman a rival to Poison Ivy's preeminence in Gotham Rogue circles. Not that Ivy herself ever considered such a thing, but to the extent that Catwoman ever _was_ a rival - which she absolutely did not concede - that rival was now removed. So far so good. Any plant can bloom more beautifully when it can grow freely in any direction and not have lesser plants throwing shadows into their sunlight or distracting the bees with inferior displays of less colorful blossoms.

That said, the whole situation was not quite as gratifying as Ivy would have supposed.

There was that Whitman Sampler for one thing. When that snotty son of his got married, Ivy had crashed the bachelor party and enslaved every man in the place, including Bruce Wayne. He was her plaything, as nature intended. And somehow in the intervening years Selina had sunk her roots so deeply into his psyche that when Ivy greened him a second time, he could come up with no better expression of his devotion than a five dollar box of chocolate creams! The man was worth billions! He gave Catty diamond catpins from Cartier – and the best he could offer his goddess was a cardboard box with the tiniest goddamn chocolates anybody ever saw!

The idea that Selina might have something better than she did, a man who was hers freely, whose feelings of affection were genuine and not chemically induced, could only lead to memories of Harvey, and some wise instinct steered her away from that chain of thoughts. For there was also the matter of her press.

Ivy was suddenly enjoying exceptionally good press. If Selina was pregnant – if CATWOMAN was pregnant, what would become of Ivy's headlines? Why she'd be buried on page 20 with little naked Jervis playing with his human skulls. This was not to be borne. Gaia's Chosen was a cover girl. She was made for headlines and a picture above the fold, not a little box below the horoscopes.

Hmm…

The memory of that bachelor party returned.

Not Wayne if the best she could get from him now was a Whitman Sampler, but the son. What was it he had said that night? "I'm the heir. I'll get it all." In a way, Dick Grayson was as prized a catch as Bruce Wayne himself. To have him while Selina had Wayne was a perfect way to assert her own power. How perfect. Selina Kyle pregnant with Bruce Wayne's child, page two. Wayne Scion Dick Grayson seen about town with a mysterious redhead, not his wife, WHO IS THE WOMAN IN GREEN?… that was the way to a Post cover.

* * *

There were days Dr. Bartholomew despaired. Admissions had soared in the past two weeks, and he began to fear his swelling schedule would soon prohibit him from giving the critical-risk patients the individual care they required. Look at this, Patient J on suicide watch and Hugo Strange confined to a straitjacket. Bartholomew clicked his tongue and blamed the dire times in which he lived.

He couldn't know that it wasn't the spirit of the age, but the party theme of one Gladys Ashton-Larraby that had brought it all about. Hugo Strange did not follow the society pages that closely. He would have heard about the Wayne fundraiser before long, certainly, but he hadn't heard at the time of his capture. He didn't learn of it until getting to Arkham. He didn't hear about it until Joker told him. A rogue-fundraiser to benefit the Wayne Foundation, what a joke, HAHAHAHAHAAAA!

Hugo suffered a kind of nervous spasm on hearing these words. He spat, he sputtered, he wheezed, and in his shock, he certainly forgot who he was talking to. Because he began ranting about Bruce Wayne being Batman to the man who was not only Batman's greatest foe, he was a homicidal maniac and he considered "Brucie" to be his dearest friend in the world. At any other time, casting such aspersions on Bruce Wayne's character in Joker's hearing would have been a death sentence.

But tonight Joker listened patiently and kindly, as he would to a child reciting a poem, a child who was none-too-bright: Yes OF COURSE Bruce would be going to the party as Batman, _that's the joke._

Joker tried several times to explain. Bruce as Batman, yes exactly, HAHAHAHA, that's the joke Hugly. The best joke ever!

Hugo sputtered all the harder and tried again to make his point clear: Bruce Wayne _was_ Batman. Didn't Joker understand? BRUCE WAYNE WAS BATMAN! BRUCE WAYNE WAS BATMAN! BRUCE WAYNE WAS BATMAN! Couldn't he see? Couldn't they all see? Bruce Wayne was Brucwan, Brucman, Bratwan… Wasn't it obvious, why would nobody believe him?

Joker tried twice to calm Hugo down, for really he was foaming at the mouth like some kind of rabid dog. He understood, he said, really he did. Brucie would be going to the party as Batman.

And he was going to miss it.

The best joke ever.

The best night in Gotham history.

And he, Brucie's best friend and Batman's worst enemy, was going to miss it.

By the time the orderlies had carried Hugo away (something about swallowing his tongue), Joker felt he had to lie down.

He was going to miss the party. Ha.

It was really too much to bear.

* * *

MEN! People were nothing but an animal infestation screwing up the wondrous green balance of the planet. Under the general heading of "People", men were the worst. And of the animal infestation "People," subheading "Men", the most objectionable specimen, the very worst of the very worst, was surely _Post Urbis Scriptor_, the Gotham Post reporter.

Ivy knew the Catwoman story could break at any time, and with their idiotic 'news cycles' she had no time to waste if she was to make sure _her_ Wayne triumph trumped Catty's. When day after day passed and she couldn't seem to find that miserable Grayson character, she looked for a substitute. Anyone of approximately the right build and coloring would do so far as the photographs, grainy-blurred tabloid pictures could be anyone, after all. She would only have to find whatever little man did the captioning and tell him it was Dick Grayson. It wasn't as ideal as having Grayson himself, but it was only the Post for godsake. It's not like they actually cared who it was or wasn't, as long as they thought it would sell papers. Let's not forget these were the same fertilizer peddlers that had her dead and buried a few short weeks ago!

It turned out Victor Fries had a henchman who would make a reasonable stand-in for Dick Grayson, and it took only a few dollars slipped to the doorman at the Hudson to make a photographer appear an hour later to "catch them unawares" as they left together. After they repeated the exercise at the Carlyle, The Hyatt, and the Washington Square Hotel, Ivy felt the seeds were well-sown. She was ready for the harvest. She contacted a Gotham Post reporter and found him quite as responsive as Martin/Hermoine had been to her suggestion of a walk in the park.

But then, somehow, it all went wrong. Ivy couldn't tell if it was a reaction to the pheromones or if he was just _ that stupid_, but this idiot of a man managed to mess up EVERYTHING. Dick Grayson he could manage to remember. She had to spell the name twice, but he took it down. But then he latched on to her first description of herself as "a mysterious redhead." He simply could not grasp that this was to be the headline, the hook, the honeyed fragrance, if you will, drawing all the bees in to pollinate the flower, GETTING THE IDIOT LEMMINGS TO BUY HIS MISERABLE NEWSPAPER! But once that was accomplished, he was supposed to reveal her identity inside. She couldn't make him understand it was to be Dick Grayson enthralled by _Poison Ivy _– not Dick Grayson hopping into beddies with some no-name redhead!

She was so frustrated, she figured she'd better find a different Post employee to get her message through. But she was terribly concerned about these deadlines and news cycles. She did not want Selina's story to break before hers. So, while she had this moron in her thrall, she asked when they were planning to break the story about Catwoman being pregnant.

Only four men had ever snapped out of a pheromone fog spontaneously: Batman, Two-Face, Dick Grayson – and now this sniveling non-entity from the Gotham Post. Ivy saw it, the sudden jolt behind his eyes as some part of his mind grabbed onto an unexpected thought like the third rail of the subway and a sizzling charge of live voltage fried all the delicate ecstasies of pheromone-induced bliss.

"Did you say Catwoman is pregnant?" the insect asked with a crazed gleam in his eye.

Ivy denied saying any such thing.

"Pregnant. Catwoman," he repeated, as if she'd confirmed it. It might have been her imagination, but that crazed gleam in his eye was starting to look like a dollar sign.

"No, what I meant—" she began.

"Is there a lemonade stand around here? I smell lemon," he announced.

Ivy paused and reminded herself she was dealing with an idiot – an idiot with the attention span of a hummingbird, apparently. She smiled pleasantly, escorted him to the nearest pretzel stand, and bought him a can of Fresca. She waited patiently while he drank it. Then, when she figured enough time had passed, she greened him again, very subtly, suggested he forget the whole thing, and sent him home.

Then she wondered if it might not be a good time to visit the Tropical Botanical Garden on the Big Island of Hawaii.

* * *

Selina was having a lovely dream. A yacht was moored on a Mediterranean island, surrounded by shimmering blue-green seas. On that yacht was a safe with a spectacular treasure. Between her and it, a magnificently challenging security net. She dove from a speedboat and swam to an internal dock, cut through steel bars - timing her efforts purrfectly so as not to be seen by the surveillance camera or patrolling guards. From the dock, she drilled through a steel door leading into a corridor, found the surveillance monitors, and rewired them to show a fake video loop. Finally she boarded the yacht and made her way to the onboard art gallery, keeping to the perimeter so as to avoid the pressure-sensitive floor. She disabled the floor sensor with an access key, bypassed a tank of piranha, and finally reached the Picasso - a fake - a decoy. She removed this to reveal a safe, cracked it swiftly, and opened it to reveal a glittering mound of perfect pink sapphires. A gloved hand slid across her abs, while that deep, ominous voice growled in her ear that those jewels didn't belong to her.

She turned, letting her lips hover nearly in contact with his until he grunted against them. They fought, in agonizing slow motion, bodies grinding against each other… until something felt wrong. His cape, she had scrunched a wad of his cape in her hand, but rather than the heavy fabric it was thin, smooth silk. She opened her eyes and found she was scrunching a handful of bedsheet.

She purred – which brought a satisfied grunty snore from Bruce who lay beside her. She kissed her finger and touched it to his cheek, then whispered "We made it, handsome."

They had. It was the day of the party and they had made it. Joker was in Arkham. Hugo Strange, Killer Croc, Mr. Freeze, Catman, Ventriloquist, Magpie, Maxie Zeus, Roxy Rocket, Deadshot, Killer Moth, Firefly, Film Freak, Dr. Death, Clock King, The Spook, The Werewolf, the Trigger Twins, Eraser, DoubleX, Greenface, Calendar Man, Double Dare, Crazy Quilt, Zodiac Master, Dr. Phosphorus, Kite Man, Black Spider, Captain Stingaree, Cluemaster, on and on. It was astonishing, the number of rogues the Batclan had rounded up in the past weeks. Bruce, of course, would only see the ones still at large: Riddler, Ivy, Hatter and Scarecrow.

But even Bruce had relaxed a little once Joker was out of the picture. Tonight they would make a token appearance at the party, _not in costume, _Bruce had declared, which fit in perfectly with her plan. She would wear her Dior, repaired from the Catman fiasco at the MOMA, and the pink sapphire he'd given her that night to set it off. It would be her private joke. In that gown, wearing that jewel, she would be attending as Catwoman in a very private way, one only he would understand.

She blew him a final kiss and got out of bed. She felt wonderful. It felt like the morning before a heist. She had that same excited tingle. Déjà vu all over again. And Meow'em if they can't take a joke.

She slipped into her exercise togs and headed across the hall. When she returned to the bedroom a half-hour later, ready for her shower, Alfred had brought the breakfast tray. She stopped to take a glass of orange juice, and her eyes narrowed as she saw the newspapers folded into the little sidebasket that hung off the edge of the tray, the letters ATWO wrapped around the fold. She set down the glass, shut her eyes and mouthed a preemptive curse as she unfolded the paper.

"Real quick. Like ripping off a Band-Aid," she muttered.

She opened her eyes and saw:

**CATWOMAN PREGNANT**

* * *

…to be continued…


	8. Headlines and Receiving Lines

_Chapter 8: Headlines and Receiving Lines_

* * *

_The images flickered in black and white: images of a man fighting for justice and wearing a mask. The man battled evil on behalf of the weak and innocent, all the while hiding behind a false persona. But there were differences. The mask was not a full cowl. It was little more than a strip of leather, bound in the back with holes around the eyes, and topped with a wide-brimmed hat. This man's tools were a razor-sharp rapier and a wit to match. He had a style, a flourish, a certain panache as he battled seemingly insurmountable odds and yet was never defeated – indeed he seemed somehow predestined to triumph. When the man had finally saved the day, he blurred and faded into darkness as two words glared into being where he had stood: THE END, it said in harsh, brilliant white against a pool of endless blackness._

Instinctively, Bruce knew the words lied. It wasn't the end at all; it was the beginning.

He stood from his seat and somehow saw his own heel step on a torn ticket stub as he walked out of the theater. The foot seemed strange, too small…

He should not be able to see that. Some deep recess of his consciousness realized this was a dream.

_Outside the theatre, as he stepped onto the sidewalk, his instincts took over. Someone was behind him, following, tracking him. He listened intently to the footsteps, trying to single them out amidst all the other sounds on the busy sidewalk. He continued walking, taking care to give no sign that he knew he was being followed, but at the same time, increasing his speed very subtly. The footsteps grew faster as well, matching his speed. He now noticed not one, but __two__ distinct sets of footsteps in synch with his own. He spotted an alley up ahead: a relatively safe place to make a stand. He quickened his pace again, his pursuers matching suit, and rounded the corner of the building, spinning quickly to face his would-be assailants. He was frozen, staring up at two towering figures looming over him and casting large shadows caused by the streetlamp behind them. He heard the distant sound of a child crying out in joy. "Mommy! Daddy!" Against his will, his hands lifted in the direction of the two figures. Each of them reached out with a giant hand and grasped his. Suddenly, all anxiety was gone. All the anger, all the tension, all the fear washed away. Bruce was… happy. They walked hand in hand down the alley, the small boy and his two giant—There was a scream, a muffled, distant scream. Someone, somewhere was in trouble, and from the sound of the shriek, that someone was female. Bruce tried to pinpoint the location of the scream, wanting desperately to find that screaming woman and help her in this time of need, but—_

Something was wrong.

It was too soon. The scream wasn't supposed to come yet.

A third giant was supposed to enter the alley, then there should be a flash and a strange, muffled pop. One of the large hands would spasm and slip away.

But this scream was too early. It was a harmonic step lower than his mother's – and it was shorter.

He should turn first, after the flash and the pop, the one giant would fall away and he would turn to the other as the ground trembled ever so slightly under his feet, and little smooth spheres of ivory white would dance before his eyes.

With a detached clarity, he noted that his eardrums were ringing, which was an actual physical response, which meant there had been a real, audible sound—

It was supposed to be later. After the pearls fell, he would—

Bruce shot up in bed, panic gripping his chest. He gasped for air, finally gaining his bearings: bedroom-bed-Selina-window-sunlight-table-tray-newspaper. Selina clutching the newspaper like a baton of death.

"What's wrong?" he asked in an unexpectedly deep bat-voice.

She opened her mouth to speak, then reconsidered and closed it. She repeated the move, gesturing with the newspaper death-baton but again reconsidered.

Bruce gestured for her to hand him the paper, although he was beginning to guess what new disaster it might announce. Rather than handing it over, Selina found her tongue.

"Tell me again why we don't kill people," she said tersely. "And it has to be something better than 'against the law.'"

"Because it's wrong to take life if you can't create it," Bruce said sincerely – and then realized if the headline under her fist said what he feared, that was exactly the wrong thing to say.

"Pffft, My lucky day," she announced, tossing him the paper. "Seeing as I'm about to start spitting out new people like a PEZ dispenser, I get to take a few out. Needless to say, I'll be starting with that guy," she added, pointing to the byline.

By now, Bruce had skimmed the headline and the first paragraph of the story. He grunted, more at it than Selina's statement. It was just as he feared. The dictaphone mishap with Mrs. Ashton-Larraby certainly hadn't gone unnoticed, but he'd hoped – against Batman's better judgment – that Hermione's coy hints about impending nuptials did not proceed from a conversation with her. Batman's strategic mind berated him for failing to face up to a truth he just didn't want to acknowledge. Of course Gladys would be talking to "Hermoine" about the party, she would be courting the columnist every way she could think of to get optimal coverage in his prestigious column. And of course, Gladys being who she was, she would "let it slip" about that snatch of conversation she'd heard on the dictaphone.

"Then again, if I kill that one," Selina was saying, "there'll just be a new one replacing him and we'll have to start all over again. This lot, we've done _whore_ and _mother_, we're running out of complexes where women are concerned - not that I'd put it past that brunch to break new ground. How does idiocy like this even get started?"

Bruce averted his eyes, pretending to read the article. It was just as he feared. He knew she would relent once her anger had spiked. She wasn't a killer after all. And now, mere seconds after the initial claw-sharpening outburst, she was wondering aloud "how it started." Bruce decided the best course of action was to divert her attention entirely.

"_'We always wondered what would happen if someone used to costumed adventure found herself pregnant!'_" Selina quoted from the page just as Bruce happened to skim the words. "Now if that isn't the stupidest sentence printed since the advent of written language, I'd like to know what is. First, while I've never had the dubious pleasure, I'm pretty sure the whole process starts with peeing on a stick, not second-coming type in some trashy tabloid. ONLY the Gotham Post could come up with something less dignified than peeing on a stick. But there it is. A bunch of men sitting around wondering 'what would happen if someone used to costume adventure found herself pregnant.' You know I'm not a doctor or anything, but I'm going to guess nausea, cravings, hormones, swollen feet, backaches then at some point a whole lot of pushing. What the hell is there to 'wonder' about?"

Just _how_ he could divert her attention from a paper she despised declaring her pregnant "in second coming type," that was a riddle he doubted even Nigma could solve.

"Oh and get this" she fumed, "did you see that cutesy part implying you might not be the father, right after they say they're going to treat this seriously 'and not as some cheap stunt.' Explain that one!"

A riddle. Nigma. That might be the way to do it.

"Can I talk now?" Bruce interjected, timing the question perfectly to complete just as she was pausing for breath, so he could take her momentary silence as consent.

"Remember those phone calls from Nigma and Joker?" Bruce went on calmly. "It had to lead to something like this eventually."

"Screw Eddie, I'm pregnant in the Gotham Post," she hissed.

"How many Rogues have made quick, much-needed seed money for a caper by selling a juicy tidbit to the Post? Not Riddler or Joker, certainly, but if they thought it, the whole 'Berg must have the story by now."

"I think it's more the groupies and waitresses than real players that sell to the Post," she pointed out.

That was progress, Bruce thought. It was responsive, it was rational and, most importantly, it had nothing to do with him, the fundraiser, or the dictaphone.

"Point is, it's the Gotham Post, Selina. Hopes for the new ownership aside, this kind of inanity is _exactly_ what the Gotham Post does."

"No, Bruce, they do Lex Luthor resigning the presidency by flying around in a Mardi Gras Tylenol capsule and Black Canary having a thing for Ra's al Ghul. This is different. This takes it to a whole new level." she paused and her legs pressed together in a shuddering spasm of disgust. "This is just ew."

"Selina, according to the Post, Spoiler had a child, Ivy's had a child, Lois has had several. Hell, as far as the tabloids are concerned, I've fathered at least half a dozen, most of them with women I have never met. This is nothing new."

She picked the newspaper up from the bedspread and held it up.

"Did any of yours get a headline this big?" she asked, the white-hot anger giving way to numb resignation.

"At least three," he grunted.

Reluctantly, she smiled at that.

"The others weren't as photogenic," Bruce added, pushing his advantage.

Her smile widened.

"Clark never made it higher than page 9," he said.

This brought on a mild giggle— which then snapped back into simmering fury.

"If I find out he had anything to do with this," she began heatedly.

Bruce laughed, flat out laughed. Another time, Selina may have noted the incongruity and guessed something was amiss. But for now she felt it necessary to complete her threat:

"I'm not kidding, I have a little bead of kryptonite, you know. It's… well, it's buried in one of the hell-mouth closets, but I have it."

Bruce continued to smirk.

"You're adorable when you get all worked up like this, you know that?" he concluded, kissing her cheek.

"It was a gift, from Felix Faust, during that whole 'my wife doesn't understand me' era."

"C'mon. I need a shower and something tells me you'll want one now too," Bruce declared – knowing 'come and play' was the ultimate kitten-protocol.

She smiled, intrigued.

"Well aren't you frisky today. Lucky your shower is big enough to host a cocktail party…"

* * *

Dick stepped out of the shower – only to be hit in the face by a wet washcloth.

"Is there anyone, anywhere that doesn't know about your thing for redheads?" Barbara asked angrily.

Dick blinked away shock and the droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes, and he focused on the newspaper in Barbara's lap.

"Catwoman's pregnant," he chortled. "God she'll kill them. She'll flat out kill them. She's got it in her, you know. That thing with the whip is vicious and—"

"DICKIE!" Barbara cut in sharply. "It's not that. Turn the page."

And with that, she threw the paper at him and wheeled out of the bathroom.

Dick juggled the newspaper and towel, hoping to dry off at least his hands before handling the newsprint. He only succeeded in smudging his fingers, wrists, forearms – and a monogrammed hand towel – with streaked blotches of blackish gray. Accepting defeat, he turned the page and skimmed quickly… He was… allegedly photographed (if you could call those grainy smudges photographs) with a very hot, unknown redhead. He followed Barbara, more confused than ever.

"Babs, what gives?" he cried catching up to her in the kitchen. "I mean, okay this part about going into hotels is kinda smarmy, but it's not like we haven't seen crap like this before."

She sighed.

"With Nightwing, yes. Nightwing they just love pairing up with anything that breathes. But this is different. It's Dick Grayson and—"

"With 'Catwoman pregnant' on the cover, Babs, I doubt anybody will even _see_ this story."

"Guess again," his wife announced, snapping into the crisp detachment of the OraCom voice. "Four redheaded golddiggers have already contacted the Post saying they're the woman in the photos."

"Oh."

"Do you know how embarrassing this is for me?"

"For me too, Barbara. With the party tonight, Bruce'll be in Fop-mode and everyone will say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

"Or the condom wrapper doesn't fall far from the bed."

"What?!" Dick exclaimed.

"What do you want, Dickie, I haven't got the rapier wit right now. I haven't had juice and coffee yet and I got hit with 'the Wayne heir spotted going into the Hudson at a late hour with a stunning redhead not his wife.' And what's worse, that redhead they can't identify is Poison Ivy."

"No, it can't be," Dick said, looking at the paper again.

"It is. I pulled the originals from the Post mainframe and ran it through a dozen graphic enhancement filters. It's Ivy."

"That's a lot of trouble to go through 'before juice and coffee,'" Dick noted shrewdly. "Were you trying to clarify the details on her – or me? The not-me-blur, that is."

Barbara took off her glasses and polished them with the injured dignity of a prim librarian asked to find a racy bodice-ripper. Realizing that was the only response he was going to get, Dick cleared his throat.

"Well, then" he said, resignedly. "If it were any other Wayne event, I'd blow off the party tonight. But you know I can't. With that Gotham After Dark theme, it's sure to be a target. Bruce and the others will need all the help they can get. You could give it a miss if you wanted."

"Dick, if you go, I have to go. Otherwise it will look like we fought over this."

"We DID fight over this," he pointed out.

"This isn't a fight," Barbara maintained.

"You hit me with a towel."

"Not hard."

"It was wet," Dick complained.

"You were wet yourself, you just stepped out of the shower."

"Exactly, and you ambushed me with a wet towel."

They both stopped, locked eyes, and as if by mutual agreement, laughed in sync.

"I love you, Dickie," Barbara smiled.

"And I'm making breakfast," Dick said, correctly decoding her statement.

"French toast please," she said sweetly. "But maybe splash off first, inky-face. You look like you just wrestled an octopus."

* * *

Bruce watched transfixed as Selina primped in the mirror. As a world-class playboy, he knew that any woman dressed for a black-tie event should be complimented on her appearance. Yet as Selina came out of the little dressing room off the master bedroom, he couldn't quite find the words. It wasn't simply that she looked stunning in the red Dior, or that he hadn't seen the dress since her tussle with Catman sliced up the skirt at the MOMA opening. It was the contrast. That night they couldn't dress in the same room. Batman and Catwoman had such a history at that museum. There was too much baggage, too many associations. But now, she slipped past him on her way to her vanity as if it were nothing. The ease and familiarity of it was… refreshing.

"I thought I'd wear the pink sapphire tonight," she said casually.

"I figured," he answered, the subtlest tickle at the corner of his lip.

In the mirror, Selina's eyes danced as her lips curled into a naughty grin.

"You changed the combination?" she asked playfully.

"Of course."

"Meow," she said, heading for the safe.

Bruce tied his tie, fastened his cufflinks, and waited. It wouldn't take her long to crack – or possibly guess – the new combination. He allowed his lip to twitch unrestrainedly when he heard a light, musical laugh sound from the outer room. She'd cracked it, as expected, and now she glided up to him, Catwoman's most seductive sway tilting her hips this way and that, and the sapphire glittering on her finger.

"Our anniversary," she said, beaming. "The new combination is our anniversary, that was a very nice touch."

"_You_ consider it our anniversary," he graveled. For reasons he could never fathom, she didn't acknowledge anything that happened before Cartier's rooftop, even though it was 10 weeks and 7 encounters after their first meeting on top of the train station.

Bruce watched her now, thinking of that night fighting the mysterious new catburglar, thinking of how much had changed… Through the mirror, Selina saw his expression as he watched her, although she misinterpreted it.

"We could always stay home," she suggested. It was that sultry Catwoman voice she always used to tempt him, and her fingertip danced lightly along his shirt studs, as if she were tracing the non-existent bat symbol.

"No," he answered – another eerie echo of that earlier time. "We needn't stay long, but we do have to go and go early. It's an old tactic of mine. If you arrive late, there's chatter all night: 'When will Bruce Wayne arrive?' All people remember the next day is the impression that I wasn't there. Go early, however briefly, then the opposite occurs. Hostesses like Gladys hate latecomers. She'll use it as a pickling rod. 'Oh what a shame you didn't get here sooner, Bruce was just here and now you've missed him,' etc. It cements in their minds that I _was_ there, rather than emphasizing the opposite."

She paused, staring at him curiously for a moment. "You have a Gladys protocol," she smiled adoringly.

_You have no idea_, Bruce thought, his mind running through a catalogue of options to cover his own culpability in the Post-pregnancy matter.

Selina expected at least a lip-twitch, but there was something strangely familiar about that flash in his eye; something unbelievably Bat-ish in his expression. What was he…

But before she could explore it any further, he finished adjusting his cufflinks, turned to her, looked her up and down once and took a deep breath.

"Exquisite," he rumbled, his eyes meeting hers.

"Me-ow."

* * *

Claudia Reislweller-Muffington did not watch television, so she could never understand the snobbery (that was really the only word for it) she heard from people discussing "reality TV." She asked Bob Wright one evening at an AIDS benefit, Ted Turner at a dinner for Muscular Dystrophy, and Michael Eisner at a fundraiser to battle Childhood Lymphoma. The heads of most major networks had tried to explain it at galas for most major diseases, but to Claudia it simply made no sense. Surely if you watched television, you watched television. What possible difference could it make if it was the show with the E.R. doctors and that funny Mr. Clooney who went to all the political fundraisers, or the one where they voted each other off the island?

Claudia was born and raised among snobs. She was one herself by the standards of all these people who thought watching Mr. Clooney made them better than people watching the island. It really made no sense at all. Claudia mentioned this to Michael Kors, her favorite designer, as he adapted the signature black-georgette halter from his 2005 collection to accommodate her new boob job. She liked Michael simply because with him you could call it a boob job and didn't have speak in code about "vacationing in Thailand" as if the very act of sightseeing in Bangkok changed the way your clothes fit. So she was unusually relaxed that day, chattering away about her new pet puzzle: reality television. She was astonished to learn that Michael himself was a judge for one of these shows. He told her it was a fashion competition that gave aspiring designers the most outrageous challenges. They might have to make an outfit from materials bought in a convenience store or, in one case, at the flower market!

Claudia was struck, for only that morning she'd received an invitation to this Gotham After Dark costume party and here was Michael telling her of a brilliant young designer from this television show who could make a dress from flowers and leaves. While Claudia had no chemical abilities like the famed Poison Ivy, she put her considerable human charms to work to persuade Michael to tell no one else about this fabulous resource. She had called the designer that very afternoon. And now, a scant three hours before the party, she received her dress as promised in a special refrigerated case.

* * *

Bruce and Selina reached the Robinson Plaza Hotel before the red carpet was rolled into place and long before any other guests had arrived or any paparazzi swarmed at the entrance to snap pictures of the arrivals. It was all just as Bruce had planned – until they stepped into the grand ballroom and heard the distinctive jangling of Harley Quinn tassels. Selina stopped dead in her tracks when she saw the incongruous image: the Harlequin-from-hell pointing this way and that, directing the hotel staff through the final stages of the setup. Selina's grip tightened reflexively on Bruce's arm.

"Easy," he whispered reassuringly. "We knew it was going to be like this."

"Yes, but knowing it and seeing it are two entirely different things," she replied.

He grunted. The fact was he agreed. The image of _ Harley Ashton-Larraby_ wasn't something you could really prepare for until you saw it with your own eyes.

"Brucie! You're early," she cried out joyously. "Too good of you to come so early. One less thing for me to worry about; you're such a considerate boy."

Bruce smiled automatically, the same glib smile with which he'd answered that kind of greeting since he was 17, but it had never produced the strain it did now, stretching around his jaw, down his neck and into his spine. That Ashton every-vowel-a-diphthong society drawl coming from under Harley Quinn's jester hat, mask and make-up— Much as Bruce had thought himself prepared, he began to think he'd underestimated the mind-bending challenges of the evening to come.

"And Selina, my dear one!" Harley/Gladys went on. "I see you had the Dior let out. So seamless, why you can barely tell. Of course, I see now why Brucie was so reluctant to come in costume…"

A hot flush of nauseous disbelief heaved in Bruce's insides. It was like he'd gone into a criminal lair expecting to confront Hugo Strange and found Darkseid waiting instead.

"…I simply couldn't understand why he wouldn't agree to come as Batman when it was such an obvious choice for you both. But now, of course, it's all clear. You've begun to show, haven't you dear; that catsuit, such a lovely shade of purple, must be very unforgiving. And I, of all people, should have realized…"

Darkseid and Joker. It was like he'd gone in expecting Hugo Strange and found Darkseid and Joker.

"…Heavens it was _weeks_ ago that Bruce let it slip about your little secret. Remember, Brucie darling, your clumsy little oops with that little recorder thingy?"

Darkseid, Joker, _and Mxyzptlk._

Selina turned, and Bruce saw that Darkseid, Joker, and Mxyzptlk currently had astonishingly green eyes. Astonishingly pissed green eyes – whose angry glare, combined with an indescribable series of pokes, tugs, and yanks, brought them to the relative privacy of a side alcove.

"Clumsy little oops with the 'little recorder thingy'?" Selina hissed. "I should have pushed you off that Anderson balcony when I had the chance. And you tried to blame Joker and Eddie and _Iceberg groupies_ for this mess when all the time you're the one that started it with some 'clumsy little oops' with the dictaphone? How the hell did you-never mind, you can tell me on the way home. We're getting changed and we're coming back IN COSTUME."

"No," he snapped savagely. "Absolutely not."

He had been wrong that morning. It was worse than he'd feared – much worse. He'd been done in by Gladys Quinn, and she had him in a snare worse than anything Darkseid, Joker and Mxyzptlk could have come up with. Nevertheless, he was not, under any circumstances, going to appear at this party in a batsuit of any kind.

"This is not a conversation, Bruce. The only way I can keep that ridiculous woman from going around all night saying I'm in the Dior because I'm showing too much for the catsuit is to be _STANDING_ 10 feet away _IN_ the catsuit."

"No," Bruce repeated. "You want to go home and change, that's fine. But I am not… I repeat, NOT… going to show up in anything that resembles the suit in any way shape or form."

"Weren't you listening back there: _Now_ she understands why _you_ wouldn't come as Batman. You-not-Batman equals me-knocked-up. And we are not – I repeat, NOT – going to give her an opening to talk all night about how you were so reluctant to come in costume because you figured I'd be showing by now."

"Not a chance. Look, I'll fix this. I'll talk her out of this crazy—"

"_That's what got us into this in the first place._ Bruce, look, you did this. I don't know how and I can't imagine why, but _YOU DID THIS_. Talking to her is the one thing you're absolutely not going to try again…"

It occurred to Bruce that she was right about one thing – he really couldn't talk to Gladys again. He couldn't afford to split his focus, for one thing. Riddler, Ivy, Hatter and Scarecrow were all free. The party (quite apart from being a high society function crammed to the rafters with big money and bigger jewels) was an event one didn't have to squint hard to see as a bunch of overfed, overprivileged assholes poking fun at the rogues of Gotham. That at least one of them would strike back was a foregone conclusion. Complicating that already impossible situation, Bruce strongly suspected that half of those 'normal' guests who were coming hoped something _would_ happen and so add a little excitement to their lives.

Before the first bottle of champagne was opened – hell before the first invitation had been printed – Bruce knew this night would demand his full concentration. He'd have to play the foppish dilettante while constantly having eyes in the back of his head, maintain a conspicuously loutish exterior while keeping Batman's acutest senses on high alert. Even on his best nights, that balancing act took a superhuman focus. It required his full concentration – and he simply couldn't do that if Selina was going to be this pissed at him all night long. He knew telling her to go home was pointless. She wouldn't, for one thing, and merely suggesting it would stir her up more…

Plus… the harsh reality was… she wasn't Darkseid, Joker or Mxyzptlk the way a man might, figuratively, in a moment of wild unimaginable disaster, imagine his inconveniently-mad-at-him girlfriend as Darkseid, Joker, or Mxyzptlk. She was Catwoman. She was _really_ Catwoman. She was _ literally_ Catwoman. And she had a look in her eye he had seen before. The truth was, deep down, as much as he knew her and knew about her, he honestly didn't know _what_ she might be capable of in her current state.

He knew he had to calm her enough for her to accept his doing whatever he needed to without any kind of interruption, no matter how small or insignificant an interruption she might think it is. He desperately wanted to do that without having to wear a batsuit. But then–

He nodded. It wasn't anything Selina was saying, it was what he saw behind her in the main ballroom that made him agree. He saw Harley Quinn talking to a tall, thin waiter. The waiter wasn't especially pale, nor did he have green hair or wear purple pinstripe. But he was pointing something out to "Harley" and for just a fraction of an instant the spatial relationships were such that something in Bruce's perception saw _Joker_. That's all it took. That's all it _would_ take…

Bruce thought hard on the implications: It wasn't seeing Gladys dressed up as Harley that made him flash on Joker; it was seeing the way Gladys and the waiter were _interacting_ that cued his brain. That is all it would take, a split-second's association to start someone thinking.

Selina was going to change into Catwoman— literally, not merely change her outfit for a party, he knew that now. She would be at a full catburglar, four-months-of-prep-just-went-down-the-tubes-thanks-to-the-jackass-in-a-cape level of annoyance. It was a mood he'd seen many times on many rooftops. And worse, a mood many Rogues had seen her in. And they all knew the cause was Batman. He began to see that the danger of attending the party in a batsuit paled in comparison to getting through the party with _Catwoman_ in that particular frame of mind. Catwoman mad at him in a room full of rogue set dressing, it was enough to set anyone's mind down the wrong path. Whereas if he agreed, not only would her anger be tempered, he would have the camouflage of being ridiculous. As was so often the case in his particular 'line of work', it all came down to hedging his bets: The image of Bruce Wayne wearing a laughable parody of a batsuit was far safer than the image of Catwoman glaring at Bruce Wayne in the dullest dinner jacket if she was glaring like he was a judgmental jackass she should have pushed off the Anderson balcony when she had the chance…

If she was glaring at him like Catwoman glared at Batman.

"It'll take some time to put something workable together," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

In reply, she took his hand and lifted it to show him the face of his own wristwatch.

"You've got two hours."

He grunted, then lifted his wrist further to speak into the hidden microphone in the cufflink.

"Alfred, bring the car around."

* * *

It had been horribly uncomfortable getting into the icy mesh bustier, but Claudia Reislweller-Muffington felt her efforts well rewarded as every head turned when she entered the ballroom. The whispers about her fern and orchid evening gown built as she moved through the receiving line, and finally crescendoed when a Joker, a Riddler, and a Penguin all collided with each other at the edge of the dance floor in their haste to ask her to dance.

She smiled regally. Perhaps whatever jungle spirits empowered the real Poison Ivy approved of costumed dress up and had favored Claudia with a touch of their magic. Or perhaps her "Thailand tuck," as it was called by those in the know, was worth every penny she'd paid. In any case, she smiled and considered her options. She recognized Joker by his leer…

"Randolph darling, don't you look frightening. Do give Gladys my best and tell her I'll be over to chat just as soon as I'm free."

Randolph Larraby slunk away and Claudia/Ivy turned her attention to the Riddler and Penguin… Julian Fitzwallace, a nice enough man but not a joy to dance with unless you enjoyed the smell of Montecristo cigars… and Martin Stanwick, a nice enough man as long as you didn't ask how his novel was coming along. She opted to dance with Martin.

As the couple moved to the dance floor, Edward Nigma, the one true Riddler, had never felt such a glow of triumph as that of entering the Robinson Plaza ballroom. He had remained undetected in Gotham City for a full month to reach this night. He had remained free to dust off his bowler hat, his favorite cane, and break in the new pair of fuchsia kid gloves which Kittlemeier sent over just before Eddie was obliged to disappear. The color made him think of Selina… She would enjoy his triumph, Eddie was certain. Wayne would be furious, and she was sure to find that entertaining. The idea of parading his victory over Batman in front of Selina was strangely exhilarating, it would sweeten an already sweet— the thought froze as Nigma realized he'd just smiled and nodded his way to the end of the receiving line and no Bruce Wayne or Selina had met his gaze.

"Is something wrong?" the woman behind him asked. Eddie turned back to see who had spoken. It was the woman at the end of the line, the last one he'd shaken hands with… the plump, middle-aged Harley Quinn.

"Wayne, Bruce Wayne," he answered without realizing. "Isn't he here? Surely he must be here, for what is a Wayne fundraiser without Bruce Wayne?"

"Yes I agree," the woman muttered under her breath. Then she put on one of those forced party smiles – which seemed strangely appropriate on Harley's face. "Brucie had to step out," she explained graciously. "I am assured that he and that darling Selina will be back just as soon as they can."

"_What_ did you call him?" Eddie asked, amazed.

"Brucie," Harley answered warmly. "To those of us who consider him among our _dearest_ friends, it's always been Brucie."

Nigma blinked, his face frozen into a mask of shock as Joker's mad nattering about his 'good pal Brucie' echoed in his memory. "Yes quite," Eddie said at last, producing his own version of the forced party smile.

He left this Harley - who he decided was quite as crazy as the original, if not as perky – and began a slow, satisfied amble around the ballroom. Halfway to the bar, he slowed as he spotted a Mad Hatter – or the back of one – getting in line for a drink. Instinct jabbed him to turn on his heel and walk ever so quickly (but casually) in the other direction, for he had to avoid Jervis Tetch at all costs if he was to remain free. He squelched this impulse, recognizing it for what it was, an empty echo. He had made it to the party, and Jervis – wherever he was and whatever he was up to – was no longer a threat. Batman had failed to find Nigma before the party, and now that he was here, Jervis could call as much attention as he wanted to Riddler's presence—

"Edward!" this same Mad Hatter called out, in perfect sync with Eddie's private thought as he reached the bar. "Why I haven't seen you since the opening at the MOMA – such a shame that uncouth ruffian The Catman making such a shambles of the party, but so _good_ to see you again."

"Um," Eddie mumbled, his mind racing for some kind of response. He delighted in posing questions as a rule, and he had plenty of questions to ask: "Who are you?" and "What the hell are you talking about?" to name just a few. Unfortunately, while damn good _questions_ (and questions for which he would sincerely like to know the answers, they were pretty rude as party patter while you waited in line for a drink.

"Catman," Eddie said at last, latching onto the one word that posed no riddle at all. "Uncouth. Yes indeed, terribly uncouth chap. Scratches the furniture, you know. Can't take him anywhere."

"Ha-ha, yes," Hatter laughed as if this was a very funny joke. "Quite in character, Edward old man. Good show. I suppose I should say, eh, something about Alice and the March Hare in return – Oh, or I could invite you to a mad tea party. You never did come out to my house in the Hamptons."

Mad Hatter shook his finger in a naughty-naughty gesture, and Eddie nodded. Now he remembered. MOMA opening. House in the Hamptons. Richard Flay. Just a few minutes before all hell broke loose and Eddie received the worst bat-thrashing of his life, this Richard Flay had asked him out to the Hamptons to 'see his art collection.'

Eddie looked around for a way to escape… And found it as a too-tall-for-the-role Penguin concluded his dance with a – whoa – a drop-dead _ gorgeous_ Poison Ivy. The faux Oswald left this stunning creature (although one couldn't imagine WHY) with the crazier-than-she-knew Harley Quinn, and then waddled up to join the men at the bar.

"Evening, Richard," he quacked – too late for the name to do Eddie any good so far as recognizing the Mad Hamptons Hatter, but perfectly timed as an opening for him to pick up his drink and escape.

"Magnificent," Martin/Penguin gasped appreciatively to his companion as Ivy shrugged an impressive flutter of petals and leaves around her chest.

"Certainly should be, considering what those titties cost," Hatter/Flay answered in the campy tone gay men use to praise flamboyant divas. "But I don't know if the garden dress will make it through the night…" Eddie heard the conversation blur into the dull hum of a dozen others as he continued his amble through the room.

"Clayface imitating Dick Grayson" reached his ears – and in his peripheral vision he realized who they must be talking about: Dick Grayson in the least imaginative "costume" of all time, Dick Grayson in a white dinner jacket with brass buttons.

Eddie felt a tap on his shoulder and he winced, fearing that Richard Flay had followed with more invitations to a Lewis Carroll Clambake – so he was delighted when he turned to see the face of a friend instead, albeit a friend in the garb of an enemy:

"Evening Harv, don't you look spiff?" he said brightly. "Nightwing eh? You always were a ladies' man."

"Er, thanks," Harvey Dent murmured. But before they could begin to catch up, a paunchy Joker walked up like he and Harvey were old roommates.

"Dent. Good to see you," he began. "Gladys was so pleased you accepted, lends just the right touch, she says. So, why aren't you dressed as you-know-who?"

"Claudia Reislweller-Muffington?" Barbara Gordon exclaimed, a bit louder than the more refined ladies of the party would have permitted themselves. "Dickie, you made that up," she added, modulating her tone.

"Nobody could make that up," Dick objected.

"Somebody had to," Barbara laughed, "even if it was only Mr. And Mrs. Rays-wemmermuff-whatever."

"Yeah well," Dick hedged rather than correcting the name. "She was in this dance class Alfred made me take when I first went to live at the manor. We called her Muffy, she went to Vassar, I think she married some guy in oil."

"Hm, well you better steer clear of her all the same. That costume is really good, and if anybody sees you together the penny might drop. We definitely don't want anybody to realize those pictures in the Post are Poison Ivy."

"Nobody in this room reads the Post, Babs," Dick said absently – then his eyes narrowed as he determined the orange and yellow blur at the buffet was exactly what he thought it was.

"You're supposed to be in hiding with BG," he whispered angrily. "Monitoring the situation and waiting to swing in as the first response if something goes down."

Robin turned with a grin and slathered a spoonful of mustard onto his sandwich.

"Yeah but it's a costume party, Bro, no reason I can't sneak down for just a minute and get a sandwich is there? Besides, Cass said to bring her a cookie."

"If he saw you, PsychoBat would go – well – psycho," Dick hissed.

"Yeah he would," Robin agreed. "If he was here, but he's not. –Why isn't he, anyway?"

At the bar, two Scarecrows clinked glasses and sang how they'd while away the hours conferrin' with the flowers if they only had a brain.

"Late or… _late_?" Tim asked carefully.

Dick turned in a slow, even burn.

"Don't even go there," he pronounced firmly.

Some distance away, just above the alcove where Selina had dragged Bruce for that fevered tête-à-tête hours before, Batgirl monitored the comings and goings from the ballroom. Naturally she paid close attention to those not using the main entrance. There had been a parade of waiters, bartenders, and bus boys at the service doors. They'd all carried themselves as they should given the trays they held or the carts they pushed. The arrival of the musicians had been problematic. Batgirl really had no idea of the relative weights of a trumpet, trombone or saxophone, so she could tell nothing from the way these men and women carried their music cases. So she had squirmed through the vent and relocated to an observation point to watch them set up. Certainly the musical instruments _looked_ all right, but her training taught her that meant nothing. The way these musicians handled their instruments, on the other hand, was enough to convince her they were legitimate. They took them from their cases the way the way sharpshooters assembled their guns, the way samurai unsheathed their swords. These musicians didn't merely earn their living with those instruments, they cherished them.

Although her initial suspicions were allayed, Batgirl had still returned to the observation point twice since the music started, just to make sure everyone was playing. She found their choice of music dull – but on the second trip, she did spot the cookies on the buffet and insisted that Tim bring her one.

She saw Bruce and Selina's return. They had avoided the photographers at the hotel's front entrance and come in through a service door disguised as housekeeping employees. Cassie spotted them at once and saw from their movements where their costumes must be concealed. They disappeared in the direction of the rooms and returned a few minutes later in… costume… kind of. _Catwoman_ was in costume but Bruce was… in a very strange outfit. With no mask. And a shiny blue cape.

Under her own mask, Cassie bit her lip. Something must be very wrong with Bruce for him to wear a shiny cape, no mask and a bright yellow belt. She wasn't sure what to do about it. There was no OraCom tonight. There was no one to report this to or even anyone to ask. She decided to squirm through the vents one last time and watch…

Just outside the ballroom door, Catwoman slid her arm around Bruce's – or er, Batman's or, well BatFop's – and then hurriedly looked away.

"Don't say it," he warned in a low growl.

She hadn't. She hadn't said anything at the house when he attacked her beautiful Porthault bedsheets with a glue gun and fishing line. She hadn't said anything in the cave when he opened some ancient display case, or in the car when he tossed this bizarre utility belt in her lap and told her to "shine it" on the drive over. She hadn't said anything in the hotel room while he tugged and pulled his way into a leotard that was clearly the first he'd ever worn – when his thigh muscles and upper body weren't nearly as developed as they were now. And she hadn't said a word – _not one word_ – when, having completed this preposterous ensemble, he stood bareheaded in front of the mirror and proceeded to comb complimentary hotel hair mousse through his hair as if the fate of the world hung in the balance.

She had not said one word.

Now, at the door to the ballroom, her inner cat casually scratched an ear, waiting for her to express herself.

"I wouldn't know where-" Selina began – when the chance to speak was lost forever. Bruce had pushed the door open with his free hand and performed some magical tilting lead with the arm over which she was draped, forcing her into step beside him.

"Brucie, darling!" Selina heard – the Ashton-Larrabys' unmistakable battlecry – and in a nanosecond they were engulfed in a sea of tassels, leaves, umbrellas, champagne, and Shalimar.

* * *

…to be continued…


	9. Catalyst

_Chapter 9: Catalyst_

* * *

It was raining, right inside the hotel, and all the raindrops were turning into shards of broken glass that would slice you to ribbon if you didn't take shelter. Jerry hunched whimpering under the table, his eyes closed tight, his arms wrapped around his ears to drown out the sound of those rainshards plunking, plunking, plunking on the top of the table over his head.

"How fruminously frightful," Jervis observed dryly. Scarecrow had walked silently past the terrified waiter and into the ballroom, but Jervis stopped to retrieve the dropped serving tray. It would be foolish to let a teatray go to waste on an occasion such as this. He rummaged in his pocket for a number of small squares marked "Eat Me" "Try Me" "Take One" and arranged them very prettily on the tray. When he was satisfied with the effect, he proceeded into the ballroom. There he saw the most delightful thing – his own image – just like a looking glass but without the gold frame. He bowed slightly, and so did his mirror self. He lifted his right hand, and his pseudo-reflection matched him. He lifted the brim of his hat in hatterly greeting, and his twin did likewise. He smiled and went on his way – then several paces along he turned back and saw his double had done the same. He giggled impishly, this was too much fun. It was a pity, really, that such an amusing evening was about to befall such a gruesome fate.

"Your attention please," Scarecrow announced in a cold, dead voice as he took his place on the bandstand. "Are the rogues of Gotham wax-works to be gawked at? 'If you think we're wax-works,' as the poet says, 'you _ought to pay_… Wax-works weren't made to be looked at for nothing.'" The frozen mask of a Scarecrow face turned slowly, as if scanning the room with quiet menace before adding, "Nohow."

"A SARACEN'S SIN," Nigma muttered to no one in particular. "Crane is an ass." All true rogues of Gotham were aware that Halloween was the exclusive property of the Scarecrow, and that he became downright rabid at the suggestion of anyone else throwing a rogue costume party on the Grand Night of Fear. But this wasn't Halloween; this was a Wayne fundraiser and the first chance Eddie had to really have some fun with his special knowledge. And now, not fifteen minutes after the great man showed up in most stupendously silly Bat-getup ever conceived by man, along comes A PUNY TWIRP NTH JOTS ANATHEMA – Jonathan the uppity strawman, to wreck all the fun.

Across the room, Harvey "Nightwing" Dent placed his hand ever so gently on Claudia/Ivy's hip and steered her smoothly towards the door.

"When Scarecrow talks about 'paying,'" he started to explain quietly. He got no further when their way was blocked by a rascally Mad Hatter, who shook his finger at them with a puckish grin.

"C'mon, Jervis, give us a break," Harvey asked reasonably.

Hatter pursed his lips, looking disapprovingly at the Nightwing emblem and then at Claudia's foliage.

"You've begun wrong," he said sadly. "The first thing you do in a visit is to say 'How d'ye do?' and shake hands, and… Harvey? Is that you in there?"

Harvey lifted the corner of the mask with a roguish wink.

"Are you quite mad!" Jervis hissed, pointing to the garden dress. "Harvey old man, you've been round that mulberry bush already. No offense good woman, you look very, eh, green. And _green_, I will remind you Harvey, is NOT your color. Come along, the both of you, this is for your own good. Karoo-Karee, Everyone is mad but me!" And in a fluttery cyclone of agitation he ushered them to a quiet alcove.

_Just then flew down a monstrous crow_Scarecrow recited, the words made all the more sinister by the flat monotone in which they were delivered. There were muffled shrieks in the crowd, the first murmurs of that fear he had always craved. There would be more fear soon, once the gas was released, but first he must finish his recitation. _Just then flew down a monstrous crow_ he repeated – when he was cut off by the harsh crack of a bullwhip, and the harsher sting of it slicing around his thigh.

"Interesting fact," Catwoman declared as she yanked him by the thigh-whip-tangle causing him to tumble first off-balance, then off the bandstand. "C4 Plastic Explosive won't explode without a _cat-_alyst. It won't. You can set it on fire; it'll just burn up… Hold that thought. Remember _fire_, Jonathan? We've talked about fire, you and I, now haven't we."

She had shoved him down to his knees, twisting his arm behind him. Now she lifted him this way, as if his arm was a crank, and sent him half running/half hurdling into the buffet. The table didn't collapse at the impact, but everything on it shook as the Scarecrow's head and torso were slammed onto the tabletop between a tray of chocolate covered strawberries and a bowl of pasta salad.

"Anybody got a match?" Catwoman asked the room loudly as she strode across the dancefloor to confront Scarecrow at the buffet.

"Calloo callay," he said feebly, reaching up to his head with both hands. The cloth that fastened his hat to his facemask had torn, releasing a great deal of straw and causing the hat to tilt at an odd angle. "And contrariwise," he added, tipping his head at a confused angle, as if trying to match the hat.

"Lina," Catwoman heard from a figure coming towards her from the right. Her peripheral vision caught the familiar Riddler-green suit and bowler of the man who always called her by that nickname, so she turned unsuspectingly – only to be struck by the fierce swing of a heavy brass cane. The room spun, and she realized she'd been thrown onto her back just before that cane came crashing at her again, this time in a lethal overhead swing. She rolled out of the way – barely – which just exacerbated the dizziness – but then she saw a blur of orange and yellow swing in to kick Riddler squarely in the gut before he could attack again.

"How did I get here," Scarecrow murmured, getting woozily to his feet. "And why is there pasta salad in my ear?"

Catwoman had regained her feet, and seeing Riddler was now fully occupied fighting both Robin _and_ Batgirl, she returned her attention to her original target… Scarecrow. Their eyes met – and locked. Jonathan Crane's new awareness was evident by the fact that, unlike their encounter moments before, he now gulped, turned, and fled.

"OH NO YOU DON'T!" Catwoman snarled, giving chase.

She was too angry to realize she was closing the distance too easily. Scarecrow had barreled out of the ballroom and down the first hallway he saw. Now he stopped suddenly and spun, reaching into his straw to produce one of his fearsome gas grenades. He pulled back to hurl it in Catwoman's face – when he paused, sensing a squelchy softness in his hand rather than the metallic honeycomb of the grenade. He lowered his arm as Catwoman slowed her approach and they looked together at the object in his palm.

"Eat me," he read.

"You gotta be kidding me," Catwoman said blandly.

The letters spelling out "Eat Me" in red candied sugar against a white buttercream frosting made a faint hissing sound, and the teacake suddenly popped in Scarecrow's glove, producing a tiny puff of pink gas. Catwoman and Scarecrow both stepped back to avoid breathing in the presumably dangerous (but silly looking) vapor, then their eyes met again. Catwoman reached up and, despite Scarecrow's wince, she pulled the dangling hat off his shoulder, fished out an electronic chip the size of a postage stamp, and handed back the hat.

"Go home, Jonathan," she said in a funk of defeated frustration. "And if you ever set foot in a Wayne event again, I'll set you on fire."

"I shall not go," he declared angrily, replacing his hat and stuffing what straw remained on his collar back under the sackcloth. "I have been victimized, I have been violated I have been—"

"Hatted," Catwoman interrupted hotly. "You were hatted, Jonathan, and while I'm sure that sucked for you, I got problems of my own right now. _You're_ feeling victimized and violated?! I am pregnant in the Gotham Post – these _vermin_ that said I was a _whore_ – that had me running around the east side in _ goggles_ – _fighting crime_ (couldn't you just vomit!) – they're now trying to sell papers concocting some kind of bogus mystery about WHO I WOULD SLEEP WITH, as if I have such low standards that I would even LOOK at the scumbags they associate with me, and as if I'm so stupid that I'd go playing Russian roulette with my ovaries. So don't fucking talk to me about being victimized and violated, Jonathan. All I wanted tonight was to set somebody on fire and you've gone and wrecked that by being an innocent dupe."

Scarecrow posed, hands on hips, looking into the distance thoughtfully.

"I believe I have some news which will make you frightfully glad," he said at last.

"Unless you gassed me years ago and the very existence of the Gotham Post has been a hallucination, there's not a thing you can tell me that—"

"Tetch is coming up behind you with a hat," Jonathan grinned.

Catwoman pivoted, delivering a high, forceful kick into Jervis Tetch's sternum. She followed this with two sharp knee-thrusts into his neck, then grabbed his jaw in a grasping cradle-hold and slammed his head into the wall one- two- three- four times. Finally she tossed his barely conscious body to the floor like a ragdoll.

"Thanks," she said, offering Crane a gruff nod – when the flash of a camera pulled her focus and she turned into the lens of a grinning press photographer.

Jonathan Crane felt recompensed for his experience being hatted, for he now got to witness the most delightful exhibition of dueling fears. First there were Catwoman's delicate features as her mind envisioned the horrors of the headlines to come: CATWOMAN THE CRIMEFIGHTER apprehending the Wayne Gala bandits… this followed moments later by the coarser visage of the photographer as he locked eyes with an angry tigress and realized he was the hapless gazelle.

"Tell me you're from the Post," she snarled.

In response, he ran.

He ran swiftly for a paunchy geek in coke bottle glasses, but that was hardly fast enough to outpace a young, fit catburglar who could outrun Batman. Scarecrow watched bemused as the two disappeared in the direction of the hotel lobby. After a few seconds, there was a primal cry of feline fury, then a fearsome crashing sound… and then nothing at all. Tantalizing moments passed, rich with that suspense - so close to the fear response - which Scarecrow craved. And then Catwoman returned, a camera in one hand and the dazed photographer's throat in the other as she steered him back up the hallway towards the Scarecrow.

"Jonathan!" she said cheerily. "Meet my new pal here. This is Wee Willy; he works for the Gotham Post. As such, he has no conscience, no morals, and no reflection. Wee, this is Jonathan Crane, he's into fear and terror."

She smiled sweetly like she was sure they would become fast friends and eventually take a house by the sea together.

"Jonathan, I was hoping you could help us out. It seems poor Will here has lost all the film he shot tonight. Hang on."

She paused, opened the camera, and dramatically yanked the film from the cylinder with a ferocious growl. She draped this around her neck and then slapped the camera roughly into the photographer's chest.

"Now then, he lost all the film he shot. And you know how those guys live and die by what's on the page. So I was thinking you could help him out. The new costume, horizontal straw, its time has come. Or who knows, maybe Willy has some even _better_ ideas to 'reinvent you.' After all, what do I know? I'm just a thief in a catsuit. _He's_ the _professional_."

She patted him on the shoulder as she prepared to leave.

"Now Will, you take good care of my buddy Jonathan," she added, winking at Scarecrow. "Make sure he's very happy with his coverage or remember, it's your worst nightmare. After all, you don't want to think you're watching Paris Hilton and Jessica Simpson making out in the back of their limo and the batteries in your camera are dead… now do you?"

* * *

There were two of everything. Harvey ran through the ballroom, which had somehow been divided down the center, half white walls with black floors, half black walls with white floors. There were two of everything: two Riddlers, two Harleys, two Batmen, two Robins. It couldn't be a coincidence. A costume party like this, there were bound to be duplicates but not two _exactly_. Why not three Riddlers, or four Harleys? But no, there were two, always two, and two of everything, everywhere he looked. It couldn't be coincidence, it was fate.

Fate.

Fate had found him.

Fate put the coin in his hand. He had no choice, no choice at all. He tried to run, but the coin followed him, flipping and doubling, flipping and doubling, until finally he was being chased by thousands of coins. All flipping, all destined to land scarred side up, no matter how fast he ran. He stumbled and saw himself staring at a pair of mismatched shoes, mismatched pantlegs, and finally looking up into his own face, perfect and blemished for one starting second, before the left side sizzled and liquefied, dripping off his skull in disgusting, corrosive dollops. One landed on his hand and instantly burned it away. Then it grew, a living acid burning up his arm and splitting off at the shoulder to spread quickly down his body and up, with excruciating slowness, towards his face…

* * *

When Catwoman returned to the ballroom, she assumed the excitement would be over. When she'd left, Robin and Batgirl were already on the job, and Batman was on the way. Yet the room was in chaos. A dozen party guests, in various costumes but all wearing Riddler-green bowlers, ran amok attacking vigilantes and non-hatted partiers alike, while others ran screaming – not from the real threat of a hatted Joker wielding a trombone like a club – but from some fear-induced hallucination of wasps, rats, spiders, or flying monkeys.

Catwoman sighed, a month of frustration, disgust, contempt, amusement, and rage finally culminating in a wave of hopeless exhaustion. The ersatz Poison Ivy, now practically naked in a little slip of mesh stripped of all but two orchids, came at Catwoman with a broken chair, and Selina could barely summon the will to flatten her.

"I am so fucking over this," she muttered, unfurling the whip and slashing faux-Ivy twice by way of discouragement. Ivy kept coming without even flinching, until a batarang struck her legs and she stumbled.

"They don't feel pain when they're hatted," Robin called out, running in and delivering a neckchop on the fallen Ivy before she could rise. "That's why they're so strong," he added, retrieving his batarang. "You gotta either throw them off balance or knock'em out, unless you can get the hat off otherwise, which you usually can't."

"Thanks for the tip," Catwoman said miserably, elbowing a figure behind her, then scruffing him once he doubled over and propelling him into Robin's waiting strikezone. The figure turned out to be a Joker, and Robin's uppercut sent not only his hat but the green wig underneath flying into the air.

"Best joke ever," Selina muttered as it landed at her feet.

Robin didn't hear. He'd seen Batgirl hampered by a fear-crazed Clayface as she tried to fend off a hatted Penguin and Harley. He ran off to assist, leaving Catwoman to remove Claudia/Ivy's hat.

"Hey Lina," she heard as she bent over - and she pivoted into a defensive crouch.

"Easy, easy," Eddie said, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. "No hat," he added, pointing to his head.

She breathed, relieved, and he smiled.

"Nice party," he said simply.

"Woof," came the reply.

"Want to get out of here?" he suggested.

"Hell yeah."

They left the ballroom strewn with fake rogues and headed for the true Gotham After Dark by the nearest access point: the roof. Eddie wanted to take the elevator, declaring it a REAL VETO of the false party and A REVEL TO take them away to better revels on the rooftop. He pushed the button, thinking to compose a number of anagrams for rooftop on the ride up. But he got no farther than FOO when the door opened and they discovered Harvey Dent curled into a fetal ball, sobbing that all the buttons said 2.

Selina squatted down at once as if to comfort him, and rummaged in the little pouch in her costume where Eddie knew she kept her lockpicks. She withdrew a capsule, and as she whispered consoling nothings in Harvey's ear, she popped the capsule in his mouth, squeezed his nose and stroked his throat to make him swallow.

"There we go," she soothed as his eyes closed, "you'll be much better now."

"You carry an antidote for fear gas around with you now?" Eddie noted dryly. "Isn't that just peachy."

Selina just hissed in response. They rode up to the roof in silence, and left Harvey to sleep off his ordeal in the elevator. The strained silence continued when they reached the roof and looked out over the city.

"Nice view," Eddie said at last.

"Yeah, I guess," Selina replied listlessly.

More silence followed.

"That batsuit was the funniest damn thing I've ever seen in my life," he mentioned.

Selina said nothing for a long minute. She just looked sadly over the cityscape.

"He did it for me," she confessed finally. "He wanted to wear a tux. I was going to wear my Dior from the MOMA opening, and then – then that stupid fucking story in the Post came out and I…" She stopped to avoid sobbing, and blinked away a tear.

"Lina, can I make a suggestion?" he asked with that cheery twinkle in his eye that indicated the first line of a riddle.

"Sure," she said, playing along.

Then the riddle-me smile faded and he became deathly serious.

"Fuck the Post," he said gravely.

"Lina. _Fuck'em._ I cheered when you did that show all those years ago. Two-Face was so mad he couldn't see straight. Oswald figured anything legit had to be a front for _something_ and he damn near had an embolism trying to figure out what. And Ivy, Ivy said something I won't repeat to a lady. But I cheered, Lina. I went right out and bought a ticket, and I went to the theatre, and I saw you up on that stage showing all of Gotham who the real Catwoman is and why those of us who know the real thing just love her. End of Act I, I stood up and cheered without even knowing I was doing it. By the end of Act II, I was hoarse and my palms hurt from clapping so hard. I got it, Lina. I got just how much those bastards hurt you – and how you hate the asinine fools who believe those preposterous lies about the goggle-slut."

"Whore," Selina corrected quietly.

"Yeah, the goggle-whore," Eddie amended the term. "Point is: you made your point. Now let it go. Say 'fuck'em' – because Lina, honey, they are sucking you dry."

"I know," she said quietly. "But Eddie, really. Me. Just the thought of _me_ fighting crime. Hanging out with – _ulgh_ – JSA types. It's enough to make you go on a seven state crime spree. I mean a girl's gotta protect her—"

"Reputation? Selina it's a _tabloid_. Nobody with an ounce of intelligence believes that shit. Nobody with the _slightest grasp_ of _anything_ could believe that east end disaster is you… And you used to know that. What changed, Selina? I mean, I'm not overjoyed with the Colin Farrell-as-Boy George makeover they gave me (and I'm really not overjoyed by the Green Goddess treatment they gave Pammy seeing as she's calling me at 7 o'clock in the morning to gloat about it), but at the end of the day, it's just another What-The-Fuck Moment from our Friendly Neighborhood What-Fuckers."

Selina laughed in spite of herself and Eddie smiled, then the smile faded.

"The question, in case you've forgotten, is… What changed?"

"You're the man wearing a question mark," Selina pointed out. "Suppose you tell me."

"I have a theory," Eddie said darkly. "I hope I'm wrong."

Selina hissed, exasperated.

"You're going to blame Bruce," she guessed, hands on hips.

"I would love nothing more than to blame Bruce," Nigma admitted. "But my suspicions lie elsewhere. I'm wondering… Lina, I can't help wondering if it might be me."

"What?" came the gasped reply. She would have said more, but a look of pained guilt stopped her.

"You mentioned the MOMA," Eddie said, remorse pulling on his features like leaden weights. "You remember a conversation we had shortly before? At the Iceberg?"

"That I'm 'not so much anymore with the best thief in Gotham City-meow-purr-hiss'," Selina quoted dryly.

"Guess you do," Eddie noted. He had no doubt she would remember. He had pulled her strings with the precision of a master manipulator and the special knowledge of a trusted friend.

"You mean that because I'm not–" she paused and growled, hating the admission to come. "Because I'm not stealing anymore, I'm more sensitive about the mystique. The public perception matters more because it's all I have left of… what I used to be."

"Something like that," Nigma admitted. "But maybe not just the _public_ perception. Lina, what I said that night, it was unforgivable. You only had two real friends in the Rogue world, and the other one is Harvey who isn't one of us anymore either. I- I spoke for Roguedom that night, and I said you weren't what you had been. I played on your insecurities and I knew I was doing it and I… I'm sorry, Lina."

"You can be quite the little shit, you know that, Eddie?"

"I said I'm sorry," he repeated quietly.

"The Post said _they_ were sorry and then they went right on doing it," Selina noted.

"Yes, but we're better than them."

* * *

Selina did not return to the ballroom. She waited on the roof, chatting with Eddie. Eventually Harvey woke and stumbled out from the elevator. The three of them reconstructed what they could of the evening's events and speculated about what they couldn't know for certain. The scene was very like the Iceberg, except for the lack of alcohol, pretzels and cigarette smoke. Then Selina broke into the Presidential Suite and it was just like the Iceberg except for the pretzels and smoke. She brought a bottle of scotch, a bucket of ice, and three glasses, and Harvey appointed himself bartender. He poured generously while Eddie laid out the Riddle du jour: What could have possessed Jervis to go full-bore psycho-rogue?

"Turning on Jonathan? On me? On you too, Selina. And gassing poor Harvey? It's beyond a riddle. It is a puzzlement nonpareil."

"It's the Gotham Post," Harvey said flatly.

Selina looked at Eddie.

"Didn't you guys see the story?" Harvey asked.

Eddie looked at Selina.

"I told you," she said defiantly. "That pack of jackals could send anyone on a seven state crime spree."

"So it would seem," Eddie muttered.

Selina looked down to the street and saw the development she had been waiting for. Ten blocks away, the Batmobile came into view, moving towards the hotel in that slow, creeping rhythm insiders recognized as autopilot. She glanced at Eddie and saw he had followed her gaze. His eyes then flicked up at her knowingly.

"C'mon Harv, I'll see you home," he said sportingly.

Harvey refused twice as a simple reflex, but then admitted the fear gas had been an ordeal and he wouldn't say no to a cabshare. Eddie winked at Selina, and she watched the pair of them head off to the elevator. She waited until the doors closed, then waited a minute longer before snaring a flagpole with her whip and starting her descent to streetlevel. The Batmobile had only reached the alley behind the hotel when she completed the final drop from the second floor fire escape. She stretched out provocatively on the still-warm hood and again she waited…

Not five minutes had passed before the scalloped shadow appeared, and she purred deliciously as it stopped mid-stride. She laughed out loud as she envisioned the disgruntled bat-scowl that must accompany the shadow's head-tilt. He'd seen her, so she rolled into an even more provocatively feline pose.

"Nice cape," she remarked when he was close enough to hear. "Does it come in blue by any chance?"

"Get off the car," he ordered gruffly.

"Make me," she grinned.

A lightning fast grasp captured her wrist and yanked her unceremoniously off the hood.

"Get in the car if you want to talk," he graveled. "I don't think anyone is watching, but there's no reason to stay out in the open where we could be spotted."

Catwoman sulked.

"I don't know if I want to get in a car with you if you're still this wound up," she announced, casually buffing a claw.

"Selina," he tried, in a voice not entirely devoid of that harassed-boyfriend tone. "Get in the car, please."

Instead of complying, she slowly traced the emblem on his chest with a light, listless claw.

"I thought about leaving you and going on a seven state crime spree," she announced, as if trying to cheer herself up.

"That's nice," he growled. "Car?"

"Eddie talked me out of it," she added.

Wordlessly, Batman snapped a cuff on her wrist and led her determinedly to the passenger door, opened it, and shoved her lightly into the seat. Rather than protest, she seemed mildly amused by the stunt. By the time he had walked back around to his own door, she had, of course, freed herself and she smugly handed back the batcuffs as he settled into his seat.

"And how was your night?" she asked, fingering an ear of the cowl which had apparently gone several rounds with a carving knife.

Batman grunted and started the car. Selina chattered lightly as they drove, but he said little. She was about to tease him for "monosyllabic Bat-mode" when she saw they were passing her old apartment… He'd bypassed the turn towards the bridge to Bristol and home.

"You're heading around the park?" she asked quizzically.

"Of the alpha-threat rogues still at large, Hatter and Scarecrow are now in custody," he said as if reading off a mental list. "Riddler was at the party, but Ivy is still unaccounted for. As are Harley Quinn and the Monarch of Menace, by the way. So Robinson Park, Amusement Mile and several 'royal' themed locations are all on the route tonight."

He was patrolling. He wasn't headed home at all. He was _patrolling_.

"Whoa there, handsome," Catwoman spouted as soon as she realized what was happening. "I do NOT patrol like some hero-addled, compulsive, crimefighting do-gooder."

"Perhaps not," he graveled, "but you're in the hero-addled, compulsive, crimefighting do-gooder's car and _IT_ is traveling the patrol route."

They drove a few blocks in silence. Then Batman spoke.

"You're feeling better?"

"You mean about my impending motherhood 'Gotham style' by way of a fop with a dictaphone, a socialite with an agenda, and a tabloid with a madonna-whore complex?"

"Yes," he grunted. "About all of it."

She considered the question.

"I suppose… Talked to Eddie on the roof. He pointed out that I let it roll off my fur back when I was… well you know, 'working.'"

He glanced at her sideways, disapproval warping his features into a brooding scowl.

"Eddie?" he glowered.

"Yes Stud, or in your vernacular," she segued into her throaty imitation of the deep bat-gravel, "**_Nigma._**"

"So you talked with 'Eddie' and now everything's better?" he asked darkly.

"Well he does have a point. At the end of the day it is just another 'what the fuck moment.'"

Again he glanced at her sideways.

"Yes. I believe I heard that somewhere before," he grumbled.

"Okay yes, you said pretty much the same thing this morning. To tell you the truth, it never occurred to me that it might be _me_ reacting differently. Up until now, I was just under the impression that I was upset because these guys who, let's face it, have not exactly been good to kitty to begin with, have now extended their trash fest _into my uterus_. I thought it was perfectly obvious that this is a bigger deal because_ it's a bigger deal_. But now, I don't know. You and Eddie both triangulate on the same thing, I'd be an Arkham case if I didn't at least consider the possibility."

She paused, noticing that his whole aura darkened whenever she mentioned how he and Eddie agreed. Like any cat seeing the chance for fun, she stopped what she was doing in order to take advantage of the opportunity.

"I mean you really are, Bruce. You and Eddie are on exactly the same page… Do they all really quake in fear of that scowl? I think it's hot, I really do."

He glowered, and she purred.

Then, just like the cat who stopped what she was doing in order to swat the ball of yarn, she then picked up exactly where she'd left off.

"He thinks maybe the bad press bothers me more now than it did back then because it's all I have left of… well, 'her.'"

"Says the woman in the purple catsuit," he noted dryly.

"You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do. But you don't really want to go back to that. You've said so."

"Of course not."

"You've missed it before, Selina. And there have been stories in the press before that were insulting and offensive. But none of it ever sent you into the tailspin that this did."

"I wasn't that bad," she laughed lightly.

"I wore a batsuit into a room full of Foundation donors," he reminded her. He did not need to say more about the look in her eye (or what had happened to the Beebe Mansion, Mr. Beebe, Mr. Beebe's private security force and Jim Gordon's ulcer the _last_ time he'd seen that look).

"So the question is," he continued with the crisp reasoning of a detective outlining the case, "What's different this time around? And the answer is simple: my gift."

"Yes," she agreed quietly.

Then, finding this utterance too reminiscent of "monosyllabic Bat-mode" for her lips, she went on.

"Yes, when it was just 'those trolls at the Post,' I guess, that was one thing. They never got me, they never will, they're hopelessly fucked, _c'est la vie_. But now, not only are they tearing down me and everything I ever was, they're tearing up the most thoughtful, beautiful, unbelievably generous— I can't begin to imagine the trouble you went through to pull that off. And of all the things you could have done, that anyone could have done, you really understand me, when let's face it, absolutely no one else has a clue and— well…"

She trailed off. He glanced at her once. Twice. Then spoke.

"Selina, The Post itself was never meant to be the gift."

"It wasn't?" she stammered. "I don't understand, there was a picture, on the cover, I was purple."

"That image… and more importantly, you're _reaction_ to that image… It's what I thought you needed to see. It wasn't about taking over a newspaper or stringing a writing staff up by its knees, much as some of them might deserve it…"

He paused momentarily, turning to face her fully.

"It was about giving you at least some small sense of vindication, to demonstrate that regardless of what the world thinks, _I_ see you for what, for _who_ you really are. It was to demonstrate to you the lengths that I would go to just to see that joyous smile on your face. And it was the hope, in vain as it may have been, that I could give you at least a fraction of the joy that you have given me."

He returned his attention to the road before adding, "That, and it was supposed to be our little in-joke; our private way of sticking our collective tongues out at the entire universe. Goggles and all."

"Pull over," she ordered.

"Why?"

"Why do you think? Great detective my ass."

"I'm on patrol," he objected.

"No. You're in the compulsive do-gooder's car which is traveling the patrol route, which it won't be once you pull over," she said sweetly.

He reached down and deftly engaged the autopilot.

"Close enough," she whispered, pressing a single clawtip neatly under his chin and steering his head to the side to face her.

"You are the most…" she began, but reconsidered the opening. She tried again. "I… I mean, back then I…"

She gave up, and substituted a slow, moist kiss for the words that wouldn't come.

It continued,

tender and insistent,

and probably longer than it should have.

For a few fleeting seconds, Bruce even forgot that he was "on patrol."

Then he remembered, broke the kiss, and pulled back slightly in order to meet her eyes.

"So, you're okay?" he asked gently.

"Meo-," she began, then reconsidered. "I'm okay."

"Good."

He flicked off the autopilot and placed his hands back on the steering wheel, looking intently through the windshield as he scanned the perimeter of Robinson Park.

Catwoman stared unbelievingly for a moment, uncertain whether to clobber him or pounce or…

Then she saw the lip-twitch.

And a soft, satisfied purr rumbled in her throat.

* * *

… … … … : Duty Log: Batman, Supplemental : … … …

(cont.)

broke open the third vial of Scarecrow anti-toxin (REMINDER NOTE: construct more aerosolized anti-tox gas pellets). An enraged shout to the right warned of an incoming assault. Managed to dodge just enough to avoid the swinging blade, though the knife did catch the right ear-tip of cowl. Dodged second wild swing and disarmed attacker. Attacker revealed to be Randolph Larraby (REF: biographical file, Larraby, Randolph III, attached) in Joker costume wielding  Henckels Brand, Type 3 Carving Knife (details attached) from the buffet carving station. Physical signs indicated influence of Scarecrow's fear toxin. Sweep-kick Takedown Routine #5 planted him face first into the floor next to where the anti-tox pellet had gone off. Cobra strike to the base of the brainstem was enough to knock him unconscious.

Noted Robin's location - he was engaged with a pair of Two-Face-clad attendees in bowler hats, but had the situation under control (REF: Duty Log: Robin, Supplemental, §7). Batgirl likewise engaged with six fear-toxin crazed attendees, but quickly administered anti-toxin. Directed Batgirl to bandstand where five "hatted" attendees (1 Joker, 3 Riddlers and 1 Hugo Strange) were attempting to demolish the stage area. (REF: Duty Log: Batgirl, Supplemental, §4). Nightwing arrived on-scene after securing Barbara Gordon in a safe location (REF: Duty Log: Nightwing, Supplemental, §1; and Supplemental Notation Log: Oracle). He assisted me with eight fear-toxin induced panicked attendees…

* * *

**GOTHAM POST **-- — -- — -- -- — -- — -- -- — -- — --

-- — -- — -- -- — -- — -- -- — -- — --Midtown edition

**CATWOMAN SAVES WAYNE GALA FROM LESBIAN VAMPIRES**

Dateline Gotham: The Gotham After Dark fundraiser at the Robinson Plaza Hotel was wantonly attacked last night by a number of assailants rumored to be a coven of lesbian vampires. It fell to the Catwoman to save the situation, seeing as the vigilantes on the scene, Robin and Batgirl, were too occupied fighting each other to aide the endangered revelers. Inside sources say the Boy Wonder barely prevented the wildly unstable Batgirl from going on a killing rampage…

* * *

© 2006, Chris Dee

-- — -- — -- -- — -- — -- -- — -- — --  
Just about every name rogue in Gotham is up the river.  
That must be good news for Batman and company, right?  
Right?  
_Right?_

**BLUEPRINTS**  
_Next time in Cat-Tales  
_-- — -- — -- -- — -- — -- -- — -- — --


End file.
